


Pas De Deux

by AlwaysSpeaksHerMind



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: And am also very bad at it, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, I truly despise tagging, My First Work in This Fandom, Please forgive the lackluster tags, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysSpeaksHerMind/pseuds/AlwaysSpeaksHerMind
Summary: After Paris, Anya discovers that journeying from a past filled with shades of gray is no simpler than journeying to an unknown one.[Basically, a continuation of the Anastasia musical because I’m not sure I’ve ever loved something so deeply yet been so dissatisfied by/desirous of fixing its bewildering choices at the same time.]
Relationships: Anya | Anastasia Romanov/Gleb Vaganov, Dimitri | Dmitry & Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway), Dimitri/Anya (brief)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	1. Danse Infernale

**Author's Note:**

> Anya’s thoughts wander all over the map during her unexpected run-in with Gleb in Paris.

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_PARIS, FRANCE_

_1927_

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_Finish it._

In the empty room, the words cut through the silence like knives. Clear and cold and bordering on vicious, more challenge than command, they carry with them all the force of a fanatic’s conviction, and she means them with every atom in her being. At this moment, doubt no longer exists. She knows precisely who she is and she knows (albeit less precisely) what she’s forgotten. She has lost, and she has found and been found, and if her fate is to die at the hands of the man whose father once helped wipe her family from existence, then so be it. She won’t run, she won’t cry, and she absolutely won’t fall to her knees in terror and plead for her life. She’ll gather every scrap of courage she’s ever possessed and stand tall; she will _not_ yield to fear and deny the truth of her identity.

_I am my father’s daughter_.

_I_ am _the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov._

She flings both those things in his face, hard, because grand duchesses do not beg kindness and mercy from those whose hatred flows too strong to grant it. And former street-sweepers who cross half of Russia (then half of Europe) on foot do not cower when confronted by danger. Vision condensing until it’s as if she’s looking through the far end of a telescope, she watches his expression dim and twist. Rage or regret or whatever it is he’s simmering in smears across his face in a trice, then he goes blank. She’s made her choice, and now, quite obviously, he’s making his.

When he cocks the gun, there’s no doubt in her mind that the shadowy faces that have haunted her dreams for years will all too-soon become clear. A distant memory, long-suppressed and teeming with screams and bullets and a shapeless, paralyzing terror, resurfaces and almost strangles her. She thinks in wild, haphazard succession of Nana, of the blissful scent of orange blossoms, of how terrible a thing it is to allow hope in only to have it torn from your grasp yet again. She thinks with an agonizing pang or two of Dmitry, of how she never thanked him or told him he matters to her—deeply—and how she never will, now. Vlad’s jovial, bewhiskered face and conspiratorial winks cross her mind, followed closely by Lily’s twinkling eyes and violent floral perfume; she hopes they will love each other very hard and comfort Nana and not be sad for long. When the barrel is centimeters from her skull and she’s forcing herself to stare right back into the dark, unsettlingly agitated gaze of her would-be assassin, she wonders with idle detachment when he’ll pull the trigger and prays it will all be over quickly.

And, like a miracle, it is. Suddenly. Almost unbelievably.

One instant, there’s a gun at her throat. Then her forehead. Then it’s shaking right in front of her and she can see the light glinting off the barrel, see the small yet cavernous hole that could send a bullet out to end her life at any second. And then, without any warning, it’s gone from her line of sight.

_I can’t_ Gleb chokes out, and though she hears him plainly, the meaning behind the sentence fails to register. Silent and trembling, confusion welling up inside of her, she watches in something like stupefaction as his arm falls to his side and he stumbles a pace or so away from her. The mind-numbing sensation of being trapped in a soundless, airless case of thick glass is beginning to abate with no threat of immediate danger, but the feeling of distance remains as he loosens his tie with unsteady fingers and drops heavily to one knee.

_I can’t_ he says again. _I can’t,_ and now her adrenaline transforms itself into a vague and unhelpful curiosity. What can’t he? _Why_ can’t he? Is he speaking to her, to himself, or just aloud?

Like a storm in the mountains, crashing and gusting one moment and subsiding into soft rain and hazy sunshine the next, his fury seems gone as suddenly as it erupted. Now, it’s as if he’s broken—nothing but distress left to take the place of all that anger. Or sadness. Or guilt. Or whatever emotion it was that sparked his fiery explosion. She’s standing and he’s crouching, and nothing about this is right. There is no point to the numbness engulfing her; no need for the misery he exudes. It feels…senseless.

Some unfathomable instinct—perhaps pity, perhaps the desire to make him understand how unnecessary this all is—sets her in motion, and she bridges the gap between them in a few quick steps. Doing her best to draw a steady breath, she lays a hand gently atop his bowed head.

“I mean you no harm, Gleb,” she says softly.

Under the electric lights, his hair seems darker than ever, the satin of her glove brighter. She notices—or imagines she does—the blistering heat seeping through into her fingertips, and realizes with a flash of bewilderment that she’s still touching him. But his hand comes up and catches hers as she begins to move away, and the strength of his grip freezes her in place. Has he changed his mind? Is he just trying to hold her until he can regain control of his resolve? Does he intend to allow her to leave, or will he issue more threats and warnings?

The desire to look at him and gauge for herself is almost overwhelming, but she stays still and holds her breath, gaze trained on the floor. Her shoulders ache with tension as she wills him to either speak up or take action, and she can no longer tell if the clammy warmth infecting her skin is due to her perspiration or his. Wait, what is that he’s saying now— _I believe_?

_What do you believe, Gleb?_ she wants to ask, but her tongue sits thick and fuzzy in her mouth now, temporarily too dried-up and clumsy to obey her. _That I mean you no harm? That I’ll never escape? That I am a good and loyal Russian? That I have no right to live because I was born into a life I barely remember and no longer want? What do you believe?_

As if he’s read her mind, the hand locked around hers tightens briefly.

“I believe you are Anastasia,” he says in a voice that doesn’t seem to belong to him, and her stomach drops as though she’s fallen from a great height.

_Thank you_ she means to say for reasons probably no one, least of all herself, could ever articulate. The look he had in his eyes before is gone when he speaks, the wildness replaced by a flicker of something akin to honesty and perhaps even a bit of awe, and she crouches down in front of him on impulse. His hand rests between both of hers now, fingers curled stiffly like he’s afraid to move them, and her pulse stalls a moment when he meets her gaze and she gets a look at the raw, unmistakable pain gleaming back at her out of his eyes. 

“What will you tell them?” she hears herself ask as if from the other end of a tunnel, her mind oddly distracted by the unsought recollection of a snow-crusted street in Russia where a busy deputy commissioner stopped to tell a terrified day-laborer that the noise she mistook for gunfire was nothing more than a backfiring truck. If he had not been wearing that uniform…if his inquiries had not struck instant fear into her heart…she might have thought him friendly. She might have thought him kind.

She might not have fled when he mentioned tea.

There’s no chance for musings of that sort, however. Her question seems to snap him back to reality, and he brings his other hand under her arm to help her stand. Glancing at her briefly, a sort of haunted wretchedness in his eyes, he stoops down to retrieve the gun and the self-consciousness of the action sends a wave of sorrow washing over her. It’s not fair that past evils should have power enough to consume so many lives in the present. That she can fear him purely on the basis of his uniform and he can loathe her purely on the basis of her name ought to be incredible, but here they are—the contrary remnant of an ill-fated dynasty, and the duty-driven son of a soldier who may or may not have correctly followed orders. His father gone, hers taken. Both destroyed by the same event.

_It’s all right, comrade. Those days are over._

_Neighbor against neighbor._

Standing very still, she waits for an answer as he faces her again, his demeanor located somewhere between the far-flung posts of ashamed and reckless.

“That I was not my father’s son after all,” he says, his posture wooden and formal again as he shoves the revolver back into its place at his hip.

There’s a wryness to his tone, an absurd hint that he’s making yet another poor attempt at humor, but the heaviness buried in there as well sinks any desire she might have to smile. He’s proceeding with purpose now, moving like this is business and he knows what he’s doing, and as she takes the hand he holds out, she realizes that this is farewell. Unless fate has other plans in mind, their paths will not cross again. The road he’s chosen is straight and clear and leads only back to Russia; hers is winding and hidden by hills and trees and bends, and she can never allow it to loop back to the land of her birth.

“Long life,” he tells her with the barest hint of a smile. “Comrade.”

His head dips ever so slightly, as though he’s undecided whether or not he wants to feign a bow, and she swallows over a growing lump in her throat. When he releases her hand, several seconds past the time she expects him to, she’s struck by the sense of loss she feels. Almost exactly like the day she stood on the back of a train car, fingers gripping cold iron as she watched the bleak landscape of her homeland begin to fade from view, Anya’s chest constricts as a good but maybe not-so-loyal Russian takes his leave. Aside from that one horrible moment onboard the train when she learned of the search for two men and a woman, or those rare occasions when she’s found herself face-to-face with him, the existence of Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov has occupied her thoughts but little. During that brief meeting on a grisly day in Leningrad nee St. Petersburg, she felt truly conscious of only three things: the icy chill of the cobblestones beneath her, the barrage of frightening images stampeding through her brain, and the urgent need to be anyplace a man in uniform wasn’t. In that well-lit, intimidatingly well-organized office full of stone-faced people marching to and fro, she could form nothing beyond the impression that she was trying to cross the Volga on patchy ice and he was either trying to hand her a raft or an anchor.

_Threat,_ her instincts seemed to shriek every time he offered politeness. _Don’t trust him,_ her suspicions whispered whenever he smiled and she felt herself wanting to sink into it and smile back. _Soldiers lie. You’re not safe._

But now, on this third meeting, even as he starts off in one direction and she another—toward a life without perpetual question marks, a life without music boxes and curtsies, a life with someone who has hopefully not left Paris yet and hopefully won’t object to company if he hasn’t—she finds her thoughts circling back to him as if they’ve only just met. As if she’s once again staring into a pair of dark eyes that make her vaguely uneasy while a pleasant voice that belongs to a terrifying uniform mentions tea shops and how she’s shaking. And, like one more unanswered riddle, one lingering question rises up and fills her mind:

_Why?_

But there’s no use in wondering anything like that, is there? In all likelihood, she has seen the last of Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov. Russia owns his heart if not his soul, and he’ll return to the land of gray skies and icy beauty because in the end, he will always want to serve his homeland. For her, the light at the end of the hall has shifted, and a new road beckons. If by some strange trick of destiny they do meet again, she will demand answers from him; now, though, she has but one goal, and that goal does not include racking her brain over the motivations of someone she might have been glad to know under other circumstances. The sorrows and questions of the past have no claim on her at this moment. She has had her fill of unsolved mysteries, and she has had her fill of unrealized dreams. She has had her fill of waiting and wondering, and now it is the time for action.

Swift action. _Immediate_ action.

Action that keeps her from losing something she believes just might be hers, even if she didn’t realize it until moments ago.

So it is that panting, skirts hitched high, the grand duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov sprints through the streets of Paris—toward her future, after her prince, in search of her fairytale ending. And if her fingers tingle for blocks in response to a grip that’s no longer there, she ignores it. Unlike revolutions, fairytales _are_ simple things.

Aren’t they?


	2. Danse Des Mirlitons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year or so after leaving Paris, Anya and Dmitry find themselves up the proverbial creek without any proverbial paddles and must improvise. In the process of trying to remedy the situation, Anya encounters a familiar face.
> 
> **Fair Warning: this chapter morphed from a 5k word goal into a 15k+ word monstrosity that I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to end, so I finally had to admit defeat and break it into two pieces. If it seems like it takes forever to get going and stops at a weird place, that's why. I tried to fix it, but it got worse every time I rearranged things so...*gestures awkwardly* ta-da, I guess? My sincerest apologies (both for the final product and how long it took me to update), and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

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_~~COPENHAGEN~~ _

_SOMEWHERE NEAR ROSKILDE,_

_DENMARK_

_1928_

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“I don’t like it, Dmitry. It seems dangerous.”

“Dangerous? What’s so dangerous about it? You stand lookout and distract everyone if need be, I do a little climbing and sneak-thievery from the home of a man we already _know_ is taking bribes and selling out everyone he can…”

Breath steaming in the frosty air, Anya regards the elegant stone mansion and its rising plume of smoke with trepidation. Despite the distance of the copse they’re lurking in while they scout a possible covert entrance to the fancy lodgings of some dishonest local politician or other, she doesn’t quite trust the gathering dusk to hide them. _Or_ the trees. For the last hour now, she’s watched the thick, furry snowflakes flit and swirl around her, their capricious gambols barely slowed by the barren boughs creaking and groaning overhead, and the thought occurs to her that anyone exiting the back door could spot them with no trouble whatsoever.

Dmitry, however, happily rambling on about the simplicity of the plan, seems unburdened by the weight of any such worries. And listening to him now, Anya finds herself fighting the urge to pinch the little spot just above the bridge of her nose. Every time her travel companion (slash fellow explorer, slash best-friend-she-occasionally-refuses-to-speak-to-because-he’s-just-so-pigheaded-sometimes-that-it-makes-her-blood-boil) of over a year proposes a risky plan, that thumb-sized spot aches reliably as a warning bell, and that’s not exactly a reassuring fact.

“You could be _caught_ ,” she reminds him, pushing his shoulder to make sure his predatory inspection of the premises keeps him behind his tree. “And all for what—a knapsack or two of spirits that we really don’t need?”

“ _Hey_ ,” Dmitry snorts, still transfixed by what she supposes is either a good hiding spot in the ornamental shrubs that fringe the circumference of the house, or an open window he’s spied somewhere. “We make it to Finland with that knapsack, and you’ll be thanking me. Word on the street is they’re doing brisk business over there with anything that’s stronger than water.”

“Finland?” Surprise filters through her as, inadvertently, her mind hops back to the fierce discussion-bordering-on-argument they had less than six months ago when she suggested traveling there while he campaigned for the warmer climate of Italy, insisting there were far more interesting things happening there if she was so ‘hell-bent on going into a zone of turmoil.’ “I thought we were returning to Paris after this?”

“Oh, we are.” He sends her a bright, semi-apologetic grin, one of the type she’s come to classify as Young Mr. Scoundrel—so genial and boyish and charming that it raises her suspicions even as it makes her want to smile. “Eventually. But we have to actually make it to Roskilde before we can attempt any kind of border-crossing journey, and you want to have a few francs to live on when you get back to overpriced _patisserie_ country, don’t you? This’ll help with that.”

Unconvinced, but unsure how to counter since it isn’t as though either of them has enough money on hand for her to squawk too much about any plan designed to get them more, Anya chews a nail and tries to smooth out her frown. He’s clearly made up his mind to do this; ever since he heard the gossip about a dinner party involving crates and crates of either champagne or vodka, he’s assured her that swiping a few bottles is the solution to most (if not all) of their problems.

And they do have problems.

Three and a half months ago, not long after the huge Finland disagreement, a backdated letter from Lily was delivered saying that Nana’s health was failing rapidly, and couldn’t they come for a visit? They set off at once for Copenhagen as the letter instructed, but all the moving around they’ve done since they left Paris a year ago came back with a vengeance. By the time they made it to the city, it was December and already months too late. The funeral was over, all semblance of mourning ended, and Nana was gone.

The only chance to say goodbye now lies in an unfamiliar cathedral in Roskilde, and because more thought was given to speed than economy or savings when they made travel plans, their combined funds dwindle sadly. With no knowledge of Vlad or Lily’s current whereabouts and the nagging knowledge that they can’t ever grow too careless, they’re effectively stranded in Denmark with nothing to barter but a few clothes that no one in their right mind will want. As much as Anya dislikes this idea…there doesn’t seem to be a wealth of available choices.

“Fine,” she says finally, crossing her arms so he knows how much she disapproves and doing her best to not dwell on the ache that consumes her whenever she thinks of that soft smile she’ll never see again. Even now, with the cold blistering her nose, the light scent of orange blossoms seems to pervade her senses, and she blinks quickly, pretending to scratch an itch by her eye. “But don’t take anything else. Whether or not no one will miss a few bottles, and even if this man’s probably cheated plenty of nice people, we’ve still no right to anything in there. And _be careful_! If you can’t get anything without being spotted, just drop it and run. We’ll figure out something else.”

“Anya, Anya, _Anya_ ,” Dmitry intones, gripping her by the shoulders and giving her a playful shake before letting go and rubbing his hands together like he’s excited by the challenge the whole thing offers. “You worry too much! Trust me, in twenty minutes, we’ll be on our way with enough good alcohol to buy us first class passage to Finland _and_ France. If we even _want_ to go back there, because once we’ve got a couple crates in our possession, who knows?”

_If?_ Anya feels a frown starting up again at his casualness.

“Why wouldn’t we want to go back?” she asks, hoping she’s not reading too much into it when he chuckles like she’s making a joke. She’d really like to twit him about the Finland thing again, but it seems wise to avoid the usual ingredients for an argument just now, so she decides to steer clear of that topic. “There’s plenty of available work, and—I thought you liked France?”

“Oh, of course I like France,” he says easily, eyes trained once more on the faraway house as he pulls his collar up around his ears. “Besides the English, who wouldn’t? I only mean that there’s an entire _world_ out there to see! Not just France, not just Finland, not even just Europe. Australia, the Americas, Canada, Africa _…_ and all of them plenty big with lots to do! Don’t you ever get tired of staying in one place all the time? Of dealing with the same type of people trying to lead the same type of boring, everyday life no matter where they are? Where’s the excitement, the, the…the _challenge_?”

She doesn’t bother answering that, because they’ve had this conversation too many times already, and it’s just better at this point not to pursue it. Last year in the Netherlands, maybe four or five months into the start of their adventure together, they wound up in a terrible quarrel over her innate urge to befriend people and put down little roots, and his deep love for wandering at will. How the whole thing began is a mystery; neither of them could tell at the time, and she still can’t pinpoint its origins for sure. It just happened, it involved a lot of uncomfortably venomous honesty that sent him storming off in one direction and her in another, and vicious silence reigned in their shared flat for an entire week before they eventually sat down and outlined a lot of rules that were startlingly necessary just to preserve their friendship.

Because after _that_ fight, friendship became something of their only option.

They both knew it, of course—as soon as the joyful novelty of shared new experiences wore off and they discovered how quickly they began to grate on one another’s nerves with no Vlad around to provide a cheery buffer, the truth was depressingly obvious. But it wasn’t until everything came accidentally pouring out amid a storm of raised voices and long-suppressed complaints that the fairytale romance officially collapsed; then, naturally, there wasn’t much point in ignoring reality any longer, so they laughed and sighed about it (his method), and laughed and cried about it (hers, but only in private), and then they shook hands and kept going as friends.

It’s gone astonishingly smooth and splendid so far, but at this particular moment in time, Anya can’t help thinking it was an injudicious move on her part. Back in the first weeks of their travels together, when the kisses and endearments and giddy highs were frequent, she could look pleadingly at him and he would get grumpy, march around for a while insisting he didn’t see her, and then cave in at last with very poor grace and an eventual smile. Now, whenever she tries those same pleading looks, he just sticks with the ignoring or tells her to try harder while patting her on the head, and it’s discouraging. The sad face had been a very useful skill in terms of avoiding trouble.

“Just…make sure you don’t get carried away and go hunting for things that might be handy,” she says finally, steeling herself as the sky deepens from flaming lavender to aubergine, and he starts fidgeting in place like he’s getting ready to suggest they make a run for the hedges. “Will you?”

“Me? Come on, you know how cautious I am.” He grins, chuckling louder when she emits a sigh. “All right, how about this: if anything unexpected happens, I promise I’ll alert you immediately and run like a scared rabbit. That good?”

No, it’s not. Not by half. But it’s the best she’ll ever be able to get out of him, so she grunts back. “Good enough, I suppose.”

“Excellent. Now, get ready. Soon as the sun drops behind the line of trees over there, we’re going in.”

She nods her assent, contenting herself with the illusion of safety the growing darkness presents. Denmark’s cold is nothing to Russia’s, but it’s more than enough to deter all sensible folk from venturing outside for evening constitutionals once the temperature begins dropping. As long as they skulk about in the shadows, everything should be all right. And as long as Dmitry doesn’t get carried away and try to help himself to bulky things that could slow him down and get them caught, they should be able to move on tonight.

_To Nana._

Oh, if she had only received that letter in time!

“Ready?” Dmitry pipes up, as full of high spirits as she is of apprehension and bluish fog. It’s possible a lot of his jauntiness is for her benefit, since she’s been quiet and a little stoic ever since they arrived in Copenhagen and heard the news, but she’s unable to appreciate it as it just feels so reckless. “Soon as we get over there, get close to the house and stay down. The servants seem to be the only ones inside, so don’t signal or anything unless you see someone drive up. If I’m gone longer than half an hour, assume something went wrong, cause a commotion, and run for it or hide. I’ll get out however I can. We’ll meet—oh, I don’t know. Those woods on the other side of the town, I guess. By that bridge.”

She considers reminding him that she’s played lookout so many times before that she doesn’t need instructions beyond a meeting place anymore, but he’s already in motion and beckoning for her to follow, so there seems to be little point in it. Jamming her hands deep into the worn pockets of her coat, she crosses the ground after him in long bounds, hopping from one set of his tracks to the other. He always makes fun of her for stuff like this, insisting no one bothers to count sets of footprints, but it reassures her. Maybe she’s being overly-cautious, but then again, maybe she isn’t. And really, with the kind of antics they tend to get involved in, it’s much better to be safe than sorry.

Up ahead, Dmitry lopes along like he can’t wait to start sneaking in, and she prays silently no one is watching from a window. The chances of their being spotted decrease with every step of lawn they cover, but it’s hardly reassuring and her breathing doesn’t even out until they’re swallowed up by the protective shadows the house casts. Now at least—provided neither of them steps directly in front of one of large windows that stretch almost to the ground—they’re hidden. And, heaving a sigh of relief, she takes up a position near a jutted-out corner of the house that affords her a good view of the lawn and driveway.

“See?” Dmitry says, as jovially as if the deed is done and they’re escaping down the road with no one any the wiser. “Nothing to it! Just a hop, skip, and a couple of very doable jumps, and we’ll be on our way.”

“I suppose.” Folding her arms over her stomach, Anya sweeps her gaze back and forth across the enormous, dimming landscape she’s got to guard. “Though I wish you wouldn’t act so certain when we could still be caught.” 

“Oh, don’t worry yourself to pieces, Grandma. I won’t be long. All it takes is a conman’s touch.”

Dropping one eyelid in a wink, Dmitry crunches over the mixture of snow and gravel to the nearby porch area. Heaving himself up onto the railing before she can utter so much as a gasp of protest (she definitely assumed he meant to use one of the easy to reach windows), he shinnies his way up into the shadows of the first level’s roof.

_Fine,_ she thinks, pressing her lips together and wondering—not for the first time—why ‘good plans’ always seem to be accompanied by such a high risk of capture. And perhaps more importantly, why they always seem to require her standing alone and anxious somewhere, imagining all the ways everything could possibly go wrong. Just _once,_ it would be nice to not be left on sentry duty; even being the one who does the climbing and burgling has to be better than this terrifying suspense and—wait, is that him sliding down again? Already?

“Dima!” she hisses toward the porch, loud as she dares. “What are you doing?”

A grunt is the only answer as he wriggles his way backward, feet swinging midair, but then he drops heavily to the ground and strolls over to grin apologetically at her.

“Do you know,” he remarks in a conversational tone, putting an arm around her shoulders and steering her in the direction from which he came, “while I was up there, I got to thinking—you’ve played lookout so often that it’s kind of not fair. Now might be an excellent time for us to work on those stealth skills of yours.”

Suspicion draws her brows together and causes her to dig her heels in as he herds her along the frozen track. “What stealth skills?”

“Exactly.” Giving her shoulders a quick squeeze, he squats halfway and motions for her to put her feet in his cupped hands. “Could _not_ have put it better myself.”

The frown wrinkling her forehead deepens. “I’m not sure I like what I begin to think you mean.”

“Come on.” He grins wider, tilting his head toward the house. “The longer we stand here chatting, the better the chance we get caught, right?”

“Yes, but I’m not stirring a step until I know what it is you expect me to do,” she returns, planting her hands firmly on her hips. “Didn’t you just get through saying this required a conman’s touch?”

“I did, but that was before I got up there and realized that the lone possible point of entry is built to fit former grand duchesses, not conmen,” he says with cheerful, unabashed complaisance. “The big window’s boarded up from the inside, possibly because a pane of glass is already broken. The only other option is a round one my shoulders won’t fit through even if I could manage to squeeze along the ledge without falling off or breaking something.”

“So now I have to do the stealing?” Regardless of her recent complaints against the injustice of her watchdog conscription, Anya’s indignation rises. In the future, she really _must_ start keeping in mind the chances that a thing she considers a safe impossibility might actually come to pass. “Dmitry!”

“Look, if it bothers you so much—don’t think of it as _stealing,_ ” he encourages, resting his hands on his knees when he finally notices how she’s standing. “Think of it as…needful borrowing. From someone who can definitely spare it.”

“Yes, I’m sure that will be an excellent comfort to my conscience.” Craning her neck upward, she restrains a shiver as her eyes rove over the little roof that seems so far away. “What on earth am I supposed to say if I’m caught?”

“Anything and everything that helps?” Dmitry offers, shuffling forward with outstretched hands again. “Look, you _know_ I wouldn’t be suggesting this if I could think of any other way. All the other windows are locked, shuttered, or too dangerous to chance it. Either it’s you or it’s no one, and at this point, our stomachs can’t really afford for it to be no one.”

“I know. I _know._ ” Her frustrated sigh puffs into the air, temporarily clouding her vision as she balances herself on his shoulder so she can pick up one foot. “But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees, hefting her up toward the roof with a grunt. “It also doesn’t mean you have to _complain._ ”

Halfway up, coat sleeves catching on the rough shingling, she manages to turn her head enough to glare down at him. “If you’re going to be rude, I’m going to change my mind.”

“And come down so you can walk all the rest of the way to Roskilde on an empty stomach?”

“I’ve been hungrier. So have you. I’m sure we can manage again.”

He makes a grumbling sound, but concedes the point with an apologetic hands-up gesture. “Fine. Mouth closing. But if you’re gone longer than twenty minutes…”

She represses a shudder. “No, don’t do anything like what you instructed me to do. I might get lost or something. Only cause a distraction if I signal you to or if there’s a bad commotion inside.”

“If you say so.”

He gives her dangling foot a light whack—a _good luck_ of sorts that does nothing to ease her nerves, but at least spurs her forward since it reminds her that motion is necessary if she doesn’t want to spend the night out here.

Setting her teeth, she drags herself along the snowy slope as fast as she can until she reaches the wall nearest the selected point of entry: a round, small window. Dmitry wasn’t, it turns out, exaggerating the size; very likely, he couldn’t get his shoulders even partially through. It’s a little tall for her reach, but by dint of standing on her tiptoes and straining upward with all her might, she’s able to get enough of a grip to pull herself up so that she’s draped over the ledge.

For one terrible, rib and stomach crushing moment, she’s not sure she’ll even be able to enter or leave—after one or two cautious wiggles forward, the thick wool of her skirt catches on something and holds her fast. But a few kicks here and there save her, and one small rip later, she’s tumbling headfirst into what looks like an upstairs sitting room. The interior of the rose-papered place is hushed, full of plush furniture, fancy carpets, and one great big gilt-edged mirror that nearly gives her a heart attack when she spots her outline in it. An elegant cut-glass decanter, half-full of some unidentifiable brown liquid, sits atop the glossy surface of one miniaturized corner table, but Anya doubts its presence holds any kind of clue for her. Even if the best wines were brought up here for later use, it will take far too long to locate them. The safest bet is to slip downstairs and find where they keep the foodstuffs.

Holding her breath, she moves stealthily toward the door and presses her ear to it, listening intently for any nearby footfalls. The place seems almost eerily quiet, and she thinks that perhaps she wouldn’t be so nervous if she could just hear something besides the pounding of her own heart. A house this stylish must have scads of servants gliding about it, and it would be a great load off her mind if she could only figure out _where._

_Why did I say yes,_ she wonders, turning the knob with trembling fingers. _Why, why,_ why?

The hall appears empty as the bedroom when she peers out, so she scurries into it and sighs with relief when she comes upon an imposing staircase sooner than expected. Far below, probably in the kitchen, a pair of high-pitched voices that seem to be midsentence get louder as a door slams, and Anya reflexively scuttles behind a pair of drapes and waits with shut eyes to be discovered. But once enough time passes with no one appearing and shouting at her, she’s forced to relax and tiptoe downstairs.

There, several rooms away from the chattering servants, she locates an out-of-the-way window on the same side of the house Dmitry’s waiting at, and unlatches the thing so she can drop the bottles into the soft snow below as she gets them. After that, it’s nothing more than a matter of timing—the servants appear to be busy putting the finishing touches on the dinner table, so whenever she hears the mild quarreling as they move furniture or clatter tableware about, she dashes into the kitchen to look around and then dashes back out.

By sheer luck, she happens to open a half-hidden door near the kitchen that is full of fancy glasses, decanters, and several open crates of wine that have clearly been put here in preparation for dinner. Nervousness lends both speed and an astonishing amount of accuracy to her limbs, so it isn’t long before she’s crammed a few bottles into the rucksack. Biding her time, she slips back into the hall at intervals to empty her cargo, making about four nerve-wracking trips in all before a near run-in with one of the chattering maids makes her declare an end to it all and throw the sack down too. Dmitry complains, naturally, insisting a few more will ‘just do them,’ but her fright must show on her face, because he subsides fairly quickly. _Don’t get caught_ he warns, and she nods. He wants her to just jump out and go now, but the mussed straw she knows is still scattered about the floor of the wine room haunts her and won’t let her agree—with one last whispered order for him to get out of sight and _stay_ out of sight until she shows up, she returns to the little closet and begins wiping away all obvious traces that someone’s been there.

She’s just finished arranging the lids so everything looks exactly as it did before, when a barrage of different car horns begin honking outside and she hears one maid groan and say something that is unmistakably _get the door_ to the other.

_No_ she thinks, blood running cold as footsteps depart in a direction she knows will cut off one of her exits, and a new voice—the cook?—shuts the kitchen door and starts issuing orders. _No, no, no, not yet!_

Outside, it already sounds like a party, like whatever is in these bottles will be as helpful as adding more water to the Baltic Sea. Multiple voices—mostly male, a few female, all loud and tipsily jubilant—draw closer to the side of the house from which she intended to make her escape, and the realization that that route is no longer an option makes panic set in. If she attempts to climb out of any window or door not at the very back of the house (and she can’t do that, not with the cook close by), she’ll be seen and pursued at once. If she stands still, a maid or butler (she has yet to see or hear one, but knows they must be around somewhere) will find her and send up an alarm. If she hides, she could very well trap herself here (which maybe wouldn’t be that bad, only it might cause Dmitry to do something unwise). If she tries to fight her way out, she might not win; even if she does, she’ll still be pursued.

If, if, _if._

At the most critical moment, just when she’s on the brink of decision paralysis, the memory of a narrow escape from that first journey to Paris surfaces and Vlad’s voice echoes quite plainly in her head: _At times, dear Anya, the instincts of a mouse are the better part of valor. Never be too proud to run away and hide._

And just like that, her decision is made.

Rushing back toward the kitchen, praying she won’t crash into the other maid, the cook, a butler, or any other servant who might very well be returning to their usual posts, she looks frantically in every direction for any sort of an exit. Since no viable option readily presents itself and her heart pounds ever stronger as the commotion grows louder, she dodges quickly into the nearest hall and turns the knob of the first door she sees. The hope is that it will provide some means of escape, but it turns out to lead merely to a large storeroom, and her mouth waters as she’s greeted by the heady aroma of spices, bread, and more cured meat than she’s seen in ages. There’s no time to marvel, grow wistful, or dwell on the harsh rumbling of her stomach, however; she backs away and blunders back into the kitchen.

The blessedly, _blessedly_ empty kitchen.

But even that seeming stroke of luck proves to be useless—the view from the windows is poor thanks to the darkness outside and the light within, but it’s still enough to show that the door that opens into the yard will run her right into several of the loud band of arrivals who are apparently parking their autos and sleighs wherever on the grounds they feel like it, and she can’t allow herself to be seen like that. Her smartest play here is to find somewhere quiet and obscure until the dinner begins, and slip out when the servants are too busy carrying in the food to worry about guarding the kitchen or staring out into the snowy night. She’ll just have to tuck herself away and pray that Dmitry will size up the situation and know to hide until there’s enough of a lull that she’s able to leave.

Almost as if to spite her, the cheerful hubbub dissolves with the distant crash of breaking glass followed by an absolute cacophony of screams. She tenses, thinking there’s perhaps a very small chance that the noises are related to an already-tipsy guest staggering through a closed window, but it’s not to be. Like an offstage bit in a comic play that’s meant to inform the audience of what’s happening behind the scenes, shouts along the lines of _thief! Trespasser!_ and _After him!_ arise, and she knows at once that Dmitry’s impatience or worry (or both) have gotten the better of him, and he’s causing some kind of ruckus. 

Somewhere—several rooms away, judging by the muffled nature of the voice—a maid complains of wasted meals and stomps across the polished floor in what Anya supposes is the direction of the entrance, but she’s never to know for sure. Right as she pauses to gauge how many other beings are still inside, what sounds like the slam of a door echoes through the halls, the deadly-loud pops of gunfire fill the air, and a piercing scream rips from her throat before she can even think to try and stop it. Belatedly, she clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle any more potential sounds and scrambles blindly for the storeroom door as the distinct thump of heavy boots head her way.

_Guns_ her mind shrieks as another loud report, probably the precursor to a volley of shots, echoes in the distance. _Soldiers. Dark. Hide._

Not everyone on the premises has joined in or gone out to see the chase apparently, and if the servants aren’t there to pay attention, one or more of the guests is. Dizzying fear engulfs her as the tromping grows closer, and she shrivels inwardly, dropping to her knees. Deep in her throat, the bitter swill of bile rises and sends her cowering behind a barrel that scratches her hands and smells of pine. _Please, please Dmitry, run!_ An ache in her chest reminds her she’s not taking in enough oxygen to help anything, but she keeps both hands glued to her face anyway, terrified that the shallows gulps will lead to her discovery. 

The footsteps must’ve passed her at some point because now there’s a harsh, muffled voice asking who’s there from the kitchen, and she squeezes her eyes shut as she prays that whoever remained behind when the others took off outdoors will assume the noise they heard came from a cat. Scarcely has she finished the prayer though, and the door creaks open, spilling light all over the area just to the left of her shoe.

“Peder?” a low voice says. “Are you there?”

_No,_ she thinks fiercely, knees bumping against her chin as she huddles deeper into the shadows. _Peder’s not here, now go away. Go_ away, _please._

The need for air is dire now; her lungs burn with the effort of holding her breath and the edges of her vision are starting to blur a little, but she’s determined to keep still. The unknown presence in the doorway is hesitating, clearly waffling between investigating and leaving, and she has no desire to encourage the former response.

_Please,_ she thinks again, teeth digging into her bottom lip as she shuts her eyes. _Leave._

The silence drags on—slow but inevitable like a freezing river, tense and weighty like an object gripped too tightly for too long. Then, out of the blue, a milk-pan clatters to the ground maybe half a meter away from her feet. In the dull hush of the room, the metallic clang is almost heart-stopping and she yelps in reflex, feet thumping loud and hollow against the barrel as she jumps. Less than breath later, a hulking shadow looms over her, and she’s consumed by a sort of wild, hunted-prey instinct when the barrel is yanked back and her last semblance of protection vanishes. Kicking out feverishly, her hands scrabble for anything and everything that might serve as a weapon, and when she latches onto a small broom, she doesn’t hesitate. It’s not heavy enough to even inspire hope, but she nonetheless wields it as fiercely as the limited space allows. One swing, and it hits nothing. Two swings, and the straw collides forcefully around midsection-level. Swing number three and she misses again, so quickly, she increases the speed of her kicks and just jabs the broom handle upward.

“Come, stop that!” the voice commands, sternly and perhaps a bit breathlessly as well, a torn-off curse following hot on the heels of the first really solid connection her boot makes against what feels like either an ankle or shin. “You’ll not do yourself any favors that way.”

Blood roaring in her ears, she ignores the remonstrations and swings her makeshift weapon again, already panting with her exertions. And this time, thank heaven, she lands two good, sturdy whacks before her antagonist seizes the broom handle and wrenches the whole thing from her grasp, the string of obscenities he’s muttering under his breath growing ever louder as he flings the tool far out into the hall.

“Please,” she squeaks, fist closing around a hard something she hopes is a loose stone as a hand grips her arm and hauls her unceremoniously to her feet. “I’m not doing anything! I swear it!”

A derisive scoff from her accuser only amplifies the desperation and panic pounding through her so she repeats the claim again, her voice nearly an octave higher this time.

“And I’m to accept the word of a housebreaker taking refuge among the winter stores, am I?” comes the reply through clenched teeth.

“Yes!”

“Nonsense.”

She has just sense enough to keep her hand behind her back and out of his view as she’s all but dragged toward the doorway; after all but clawing her captor’s eyes, there’s no chance of her escaping through any form of fast talking, and she’s now down to her final weapon.

“Please,” she tries again. “I am an intruder, I admit it, but I am not a threat!”

“For your sake, I would hope not. Though I doubt they welcome the presence of thieves any more than they do that of spies.”

She frowns, the retort that she’s neither thief nor spy (a one-time act of desperation does not a thief make and that she will maintain) halted by the abrupt realization that both she and her opponent are speaking Russian. This clearly eliminates all possibility of him being the fearsome owner of the house, so she’s at least safe on that count. But if he’s an important enough Russian to rank an invitation to dinner in a place such as this one, if he’s speaking of spies and thieves and hinting at punishments visited upon spies and thieves, protracted conversation of any sort isn’t in her best interests. Steeling her nerves as he shoves open the door and a temporarily blinding strip of light spills across her vision, she takes a careful breath and doesn’t resist when he marshals her into the hall. All she needs is one clear shot and a tiny bit of luck…

_Now or never, Anya. Now or never._

“Please,” she says again, softening her voice and adding a piteous little fake sob while her eyes adjust. Let him think she’s hysterical and at the point of surrender; the farther off his guard he is, the better. And perhaps, if he’s merely a guest, he’ll be distracted enough trying to pick his way through the house that she’ll be able to catch him slipping. “I swear on all I hold sacred that I’m telling you the truth. I mean you no harm. I mean no one any harm.”

Maybe the tone does it or, or perhaps the sob; either way, her captor halts suddenly and she sees her chance. Taking a deep breath while he turns toward her, she lifts her hidden hand and swings it at his head—hard, fast, with all her might.

But the blow never lands.

Swift as lightning, long before she can process the motion, his free hand flashes out and catches her wrist a hairbreadth away from his skull. Her heart sinks, curdled impossibly by a twin wave of terror and despair, but as she tilts her head up to beam defiance, the light illuminates a combination of dark hair, grimly-set jaw, and utterly startled gaze that obliterates all desire to hit him.

“Gleb?” she gasps, mouth falling open.

He’s a little thinner than she remembers, specifically about the face, and more tired looking. Beneath his startled eyes lurk faint, purplish crescent moons, the indelible stamp of more than one night spent in the futile pursuit of sleep. The stubble dusting his chin is also different—sparser than the last time she saw him, possibly he even shaved before setting out for this party—and the heavy coat he’s wearing is neither military nor Cheka nor an attempt at something resembling fashion. If anything, she thinks, he seems to be trying for inconspicuousness more than impressiveness, but all of that means absolutely nothing in light of the earth-shattering fact that he’s standing here right in front of her.

In Denmark.

Alive.

And in his aliveness, staring at her with an expression of complete and profound confusion that mirrors (or perhaps even surpasses) her own.

“Comrade,” he says at last in a tone she can’t decipher, gaze oscillating between her face and raised hand like he can’t quite reconcile the reality of sight with the improbability of the moment. “What a surprise.”

“What—how?” she sputters, shock robbing her of all ability to form coherent speech. “Why…?”

“A dinner party,” he responds before she can attempt to revise her incomplete question. “I’m attending in another’s stead. He wished to decline, but we needed to keep an eye—it’s unimportant. What are you doing here?”

Doing, doing. What _is_ she doing?

For an embarrassingly long moment, Anya cannot fathom what he means. The fact that he’s _alive,_ the fact that he’s _here,_ the fact that he’s holding her by the elbow and wrist and talking of dinner parties as casually as though he’s used to dealing with them when the last she saw of him was what she assumed would be the last she saw of him…

“Oh,” she says at length, forcing herself to focus on specifics rather than the storm of questions now raging in her brain. “ _Oh_ , I’m hiding. That is, I was hiding. In there. But not for nefarious reasons!”

“Of course not.” His expression remains blank, though she thinks she sees what might be a faint glimmer of humor—or perhaps just a new line of confusion—in his eyes. “And the cheese?”

“The cheese?” she repeats. What in heaven’s name does that mean?

“Yes, the cheese.” His head tilts slightly to one side, brows lifted quizzically. “Were you really going to bludgeon me with it?”

“What?” Following his gaze, she flushes when she realizes that the object still clutched in her hand is merely a hard, bricklike chunk of sharp cheese. “Oh. Yes, I, I suppose so. I thought—well, it felt very much like a rock when I grabbed it.”

“Ah.”

He says it matter-of-factly, like he hears explanations as ridiculous as that one every day, but something about the way his mouth twists after the words calms a little of the riot going on in her head. If not _friendly,_ it is a gesture that is at least not hostile, and puts her rather in mind of his amused concern the day of the backfiring truck. The moment he releases her, she obeys impulse and puts a hand on his arm.

“I am…happy to see you, Gleb,” she tells him, choosing to pretend she doesn’t notice the way he stiffens when her fingers close around his sleeve. He doesn’t _appear_ angry about this sudden encounter, but it’s probably best to not make him question the circumstances around her presence since she can’t truthfully say all the reasons are innocent. “I had worried after Paris that you might—”

“You’ve no need to worry,” he interrupts, sounding almost weary. “I told them only that the princess Anastasia exists no longer, and the girl we believed intended to pass herself off as a lost Romanov had disappeared into the heart of France with no intention whatsoever of carrying out a criminal’s charade. You’d be astonished how readily the tale of a hungry bridge-dweller conning conmen for free passage to Paris is believed in Leningrad.”

A frown wrinkles across her forehead, even as a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying until now drops off her shoulders. So, she’s safer than she dared think. But the lie, the lack of conflicting hatred and sorrow—surely, this doesn’t mean he’s changed his mind about that conclusion he admitted to in Paris, does it?

“I thought…” She almost cringes at the insecurity that creeps into her voice and coughs to hide it. “You told them I’m not her?”

His smile falls somewhere between wry and amused. “You still call yourself _Anya_ , do you not, comrade?”

“Well…yes. But how do you know that?” she demands, realization striking.

“A guess.”

The answer is somehow less-satisfying than she wants it to be, and she grips his arm tighter, holding him in place as he starts toward the door. “You do still believe I’m her, don’t you? You haven’t thought better of it?”

He pauses, eyes shadowing slightly as he glances down at her. “Is this truly the time and place for this conversation?”

“Of course not, I just…” She bites her lip, frustration finally winning out over nerves. “We’re already standing about talking, and it’s very important to me.”

The ghost of a smile flits across his face, momentarily softening the hard lines of his features. “Then I will be sure and provide you with an answer once we get you out of here. Come. I assume the trespasser they set out after is an acquaintance of yours, and his valiant efforts will mean nothing if the search party returns to find you traipsing about the halls.”

He extends a hand toward the kitchen—politely, if not smoothly—and she stares at it for a beat or two. In a strange, almost comically perverse way, that upturned palm resembles the sort of invitations a bruised portion of her mind recalls with all the clarity of a dream within a dream ( _Will your highness do me the honor? I’d be delighted, lieutenant. Isn’t it a fine evening?_ ), and an odd little chill tingles through her. The last time this particular hand was before her, she was reeling from the shock of about six varying emotions. Now, the primary mood is bewilderment, and somehow that makes even less sense. She needs to escape, but she wants to ask questions. She also doesn’t know if she’s ready for the answers.

“You’re going to help me?” she asks, because now she’s stared too long and the air’s beginning to feel stuffy. “Not…”

“What, give you away?”

She nods wordlessly, not quite daring to voice the nagging little worry that says he might very well have rethought his actions after all this time, and his mouth twists again.

“I could hardly trumpet your current presence in Denmark after reporting that your only aim was to scheme your way into France, now could I?” he says in a tone that’s light enough to be comforting, but too precise to seem quite natural. “Runaway street-sweepers who take advantage of cunning conmen to secure safe passage over the border—as a rule, they do not tend to find business this close to Russia.”

There’s a note of warning embedded somewhere in his words, and she nods again, catching herself just before she begins widening her eyes in her most frequently-used defense mechanism. That veneer of naïve, frightened compliance worked very well for her back in his office in Peters—Leningrad, but with its element of surprise somewhat diminished by her escape to France, it seems foolish to try it again. Besides that, there isn’t really a need for it. Not if he really does mean to help her which, judging by the insistent way he’s ushering her ahead of him down the hall, it seems he does.

_Just like that day on the Nevsky Prospekt._

Her scalp prickles a little as she remembers both his concern and the strange and unexpected mention of tea shops that followed it. And her courage wilts a bit when she remembers her Paris resolve to demand answers about that moment, should she ever see him again. (She really believed she’d never see him again; it had felt like such a _safe_ resolution to make at the time. It’s not fair that fate seems bent on calling what may have been her bluff in this extremely unsettling fashion. When there are only a few pages left and two characters march off in separate directions, the story is supposed to be over. They are not supposed to run into one another again. Not without some sort of _warning_ , at any rate.)

“That…makes sense,” she tells him, wondering with a twinge of something that, incredibly, feels like disappointment, if self-preservation is the only thing that keeps him from sounding the alarm. Somehow, even though she still doesn’t know what to make of him and his blurry allegiances, she finds it hard to believe he could be that neutral. Despite the almost-smile he’s wearing and the air of calm resignation about him, she’s reminded of that wild look in his eyes when he confronted her in Paris and surrounded them both with the ghosts of an ugly past—of how he seemed more himself after it went away, yet also hollower. “Are you well?”

He looks at her for a second or two as though he would love to inquire about the inner workings of her mind, then chuckles. “I am well, thank you. But I will be in much higher spirits if we can _discuss this elsewhere_.”

“Of course.”

The firm grip on her elbow relaxes, transitioning in two winks from half-arrest to near-diffident escort. Neither of them speaks as he steers down the worn kitchen steps and out into the bracingly icy night; not until they’ve crossed a wide expanse of trampled snow and they’re safely ensconced in the plain little auto he apparently arrived in and are approaching the main road.

“Where to?” he says in that same brisk, not-quite ironic tone she fails so completely to read. “I assume one or both of your conmen, who are no doubt the reason behind all the uproar, initiated some sort of an improbably wild escape plan with a meeting place?”

“There is a stretch of forest,” she replies, resentment flickering to life at the assumptive scorn she hears echoing in that remark. That Dmitry stands as the cause of this pandemonium is undeniable; same as to his formulating a plan that’s something of a harebrained nature. The intimation that she is in on and blindly approves of the terrible plan is, however, more than a little insulting. “That way, some distance back down the road. There’s a forest by a bridge.”

Gleb inclines his head but makes no reply, his eyes fixed straight ahead as he turns the sputtering four-wheeled contraption in the direction she indicates. They are now placed where speaking can pose no threat of discovery, but the only sound that breaks the cumbersome silence that’s landed between them again is the hiccoughing thrum of the motor. Ahead, the ghostlike outline of the snowy road winds into invisibility, and Anya’s throat cools and stings as she takes in an experimental gulp of the frigid air.

She expects—or perhaps just hopes—that he’ll be the one to tire first of the unnatural stillness, to reopen a conversation she’s bursting to have but cannot quite seem to find the words for. But the pile of questions lurking dormant in her head surges back to life and begins gnawing the edges off her patience before he’s had the chance to do much more than steer them around one bend. Resigning herself to the inevitable dissolution of her patience, she crosses her arms over her chest and settles back against the seat.

“Vlad is somewhere in Europe doing his best to live honestly,” she announces with all the dignity she can muster. “And Dmitry is not ‘my conman.’ Nor, for the record, do I approve of every rash act he does. Tonight, I specifically told him to wait.”

“I see.”

She steals a glance his way to see if he _does_ see, but his face remains frustratingly blank and fixed on the road. _Probably deliberately,_ she thinks with a twinge of irritation, because surely he can’t be unaware of her intense curiosity regarding him? Surely, he has to know how baffling both his presence and aid are to her?

Surely he _must_ sense the fog of unspoken questions hanging over them?

“Have you a question you wish to ask, comrade?” Gleb says drily, a slight quirk near the corner of his mouth the only indication that he finds her stare anything but a nuisance.

“Haven’t you?” Anya returns. It’s not an eloquent reply by any means, but feels warranted under the circumstances.

“I suppose.” He meets her eyes briefly, the quirk slipping into an actual smile for a heartbeat or two. “But none, I think, quite so pressing as the one you seem unable to voice now that we are no longer in danger of eavesdroppers and difficult explanations.”

She eyes him sharply, unsure if he means to be humorous or serious, and decides to play it safe. “Perhaps I am just waiting until we reach the woods. To ensure that we are completely safe before I bring up a subject you seem afraid to discuss.”

Brow furrowed, he casts a searching look her way. The proper response is, of course, _What subject,_ and she knows instantly from the way he hesitates before smiling politely and returning his attention to the road, that he is every bit as aware of that as she is—he just has no intention of uttering those words.

Which means she has undoubtedly struck a nerve.

“Why are you helping me instead of turning me in?” she asks, facing carefully forward so as not to seem too curious. “Truthfully, not…what you said back there.”

“I was untruthful in nothing I said,” he responds, but a little _too_ stiffly, and she sighs.

“You were not lying, but you were not being honest, either. I am not a fool, Gleb.”

He chuckles, the sound somehow flat. “I did not mean to sugg—”

“Why are you helping me?” she repeats, emphasizing each word slowly and carefully. “ _Truthfully_.”

His posture, already crisp and upright, seems to become impossibly more rigid. For a long moment it seems like he’s going to refuse to answer; then, at last, he actually looks at her. Exasperation fills his eyes…exasperation along with a dash of humor, and all mixed together with some stronger emotion that crackles and pulses just below the surface of his calm exterior and that she dares not attempt to guess at for reasons she dares not define—not here, not in a moving vehicle in the chilly darkness—and a shiver that’s somewhere between frightening and pleasant runs through her.

“ _Truthfully,_ comrade?” he says. “I wish I knew.”

“Oh.”

After that, she sinks into the unsympathetic depths of the cold leather seat and focuses on the landscape whizzing by.

She also resolves to not let his answer sting. They are not, after all, friends. At best they are just barely past acquaintances, and that only because circumstance and the winds of chance keep smudging the line of history that ought to divide them. Beyond that—well, a princess (former or otherwise) does not dwell on the remarks of a former foe.

That would be foolish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter title references one of my favorite pieces/dances from The Nutcracker, aka my favorite ballet of all time (if it's not obvious by now, I'm really leaning into the whole ballet theme here), mainly because its lighthearted sound seemed to fit this section :] 
> 
> *While this is most DEFINITELY a fic meant to follow after everything the show established and thus needs at least a little explanation for why Dmitry is out of the picture, I wasn't satisfied with any of the scenes I wrote SHOWING how they fell apart, so I ended up having to do what I despise and just TELL it. I think the biggest problem I had with the musical was that it was just trying so hard to pack so much into such a short amount of space that things were inevitably going to feel rushed, but the realization that sort of finished off the idea of Dmitry/Anya for me (beyond the fact that they just seemed too similar in areas they ought to be different, and too different in areas they ought to be similar, and when I realized that they interact about as much onstage as Vlad and Anya and Gleb and Anya...yeah, that was it. That being said, I feel like they'd still be friends, so that's what I went with here. 
> 
> *I suppose a strong argument can be made for "Gleb was executed for failing to follow orders upon returning to Russia," but...come on. If we can suspend our disbelief long enough to assume he was allowed to even PURSUE Anya to Paris after that first failure, and that he was allowed to give an explanation after returning with no proof of her death, we can also assume that a very busy new government would have been happy to sweep all that dust under the rug and carry on as usual. So, that's the line we're rolling with for the purposes of this story :] (Also, just FYI, there will be more Gleb in the second half of this chapter.)
> 
> *As I mentioned in the notes for the first chapter, I don't know when I'll be updating this but the goal is at least once a month. I actually expected to have this chapter up much sooner, but in addition to editing/structural problems, life threw a serious curveball right at the end of October, and the last couple months have been a little rough. As a result, I'm behind on all my planned updates and trying to take care of them in a rush, so I'll add the rest of this chapter's notes that I wrote and stashed somewhere on my phone I currently can't find later, and for now...thanks for reading/commenting, and HAPPY 2021! May you and your loved ones stay safe and happy, and may ALL your New Year's dreams come true <3


	3. Danse Macabre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part II of the previous chapter—  
> After running into one another at the mansion, Anya and Gleb make their way to the pre-planned rendezvous point to wait for Dmitry, and Anya takes the opportunity to try and make sense of some things that have been puzzling her.

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_STILL SOMEWHERE NEAR ROSKILDE,_

_DENMARK_

_1928_

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In the prevailing hush of the little forest, every step resounds like a crash. The light, silvery-blue and inconstant thanks to all the clouds that keep drifting across the moon, lies in stark, lacy shadows across the uneven ground as they move toward the distant but steady burble of running water. Although it’s far too cold for the stream that’s nearby to be moving at full power, there appears to be just enough strength left in it to make noise, and if nothing else, that auditory cue relieves Anya of the worry that they’ll get turned around trying to pick their way in the dark. She’s been lost in forests before, both in sleeping and waking, and the memories associated with those experiences are unpleasant ones she would prefer not to revisit.

Particularly when she’s not quite certain how to feel about the fact that she won’t be lost alone.

Curiosity piqued yet again, she turns her head slightly to steal a glance at her silent companion. It’s very odd, she decides, how he seems to have exactly two verbal versions of himself: on, where the words pour from him like water out of a faucet, and off, where not so much as a stray droplet escapes and the snow chirping beneath his heavy boots has more to say than he. (Though it is possible, she reasons, that a third version exists—he did speak a little earlier, without the usual rush. Perhaps she’s overlooked the chance that the tap is rusted.)

She drops her eyes quickly back to the ground when he begins to turn, seeming to sense her stare; as a result, she misses when he gestures toward the large trunk of a fallen tree that lies in the shadow of the old bridge and nearly trips over it.

“I’m fine,” she assures him when he catches her neatly by the elbow, regardless of the fact that she’s clutching his arm for balance. “Thank you.”

He nods politely, apparently still bent on preserving this strange and uncomfortable state of things as he motions for her to take a seat, and she wonders if it’s because he’s waiting for her to say something first or because he is simply not in the mood to speak to her.

“Are you not going to sit?” she asks, unable to contain herself after a short period of time passes in which she sits stiff and straight while he continues to stand unnaturally still, looking out at the dark maze of tree trunks.

The question feels like a shout after the lack of talking, and she’s not very surprised he takes another moment or two to respond.

“I thought it would be best if one of us were to keep a lookout for anyone approaching,” he says at last, glancing briefly at her over his shoulder.

_Oh._

She starts to nod in agreement before the geography of their current location impresses itself upon her—dense trees and jagged but good-sized boulders, a shadowy slope almost under the bridge, no clear-cut path in sight—and her eyes narrow. He’s on his feet and she’s smaller and seated, true, but from here, the view of anything other than forest is quite limited. At best, the trees obscure nearly everything, and they’re completely out of sight of the road that runs past the bridge; even if someone were to stand near the bridge’s rail and peer over, the likelihood of their being spotted is slim. The only person who could reasonably be expected to locate them would be a person already looking for them, and since it makes no sense for Gleb to go to the trouble of smuggling her all the way out here just to kill her and lie in wait for Dmitry when it would have been much easier to kill her at the mansion or on the way over after she told him of the meeting place (added to that, he’s a cautious sort who seems very unlikely to walk into a situation knowing he’s outnumbered, and he hasn’t had one moment away from her where he could have summoned any form of backup), the lone person who might stumble upon them is Dmitry.

And there is no need to keep a lookout for Dmitry.

“If you wish to avoid talking to me, you can just say so,” she announces, folding her arms over her chest and trying her best not to snap. “There’s no need to invent excuses, I only thought you might get tired of standing. Also, it is very unpleasant conversing with someone’s back. If you don’t wish to sit, you could at least turn around.”

Gleb holds steady for a count of three. Then, slowly, with a neutral expression that still somehow manages to convey extremely unnecessary amounts of dignity, he turns toward her and lowers himself carefully onto the log beside her.

“My apologies,” he says in another of those tones she can’t quite read, though she suspects this one contains at least a pinch of humor. “If I seem averse to talking, it is only because I cannot for the life of me think of anything worth saying.”

On some calm, sensibly detached level, she both understands and sympathizes heartily with that sentiment. She’s been there herself, many times. And paradoxically, there are so many things to be said that it seems almost useless too begin saying any of them—really, does it do anyone any good to fill a year of utter silence with the first words that come handy? Words are powerful, frighteningly volatile tools of communication, and even the right one in the wrong place can give rise to any number of chaotic storms.

Beneath all that logic, however, a very eager, very starved part of her sees an opportunity that has never before been available and urges her to seize it—now, quickly, before it’s too late again.

Taking a breath, she glances at him out of the corner of one eye. “If you’re having difficulty coming up with things to say, you could always answer some questions for me. While we wait?”

His mouth twists in a reluctant grin, and she wonders if he suspects or just fears what she means. “And what questions might those be, comrade?”

“First,” she replies, choosing to focus on the grin rather than the reluctance, “you called me Anya. Back there, at the mansion. Anya, not Anastasia.”

Gleb’s gaze flickers on the name though his expression remains mostly steady. “That I did.”

She bites her tongue, his discouraging formality tempting her sorely to release a flood of annoying questions. “Why?” she asks simply. Maybe it’s best to be direct as possible with him. “Why would you do that?”

He emits a noncommittal sort of grunt. “I’m…not sure I follow. You are still _using_ the name Anya, are you not?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then why…?”

Anya sighs, poking at a snow-dusted stone with one toe. “The last time we…spoke.” It’s hardly the correct word for the exchange they shared, but as no better term presents itself and she knows intuitively that he remembers it every bit as well as she, she presses on anyway. “You only called me Anya before.”

“Before,” he repeats, speculation clouding his face. “Before what?”

“Before…” She racks her brain and comes up empty. “Paris.”

_When you came to kill me. When you couldn’t pull the trigger. When you said you believed I am her._

Slowly, Gleb nods. “I do have a habit of addressing people by the names provided,” he says at last. “Was I meant to do otherwise?”

She studies him, trying to understand if he’s serious or sarcastic, but his eyes are on the treeline again and she frowns as she realizes she can’t tell.

“This isn’t a joke to me,” she tells him, just in case he’s being flippant. “It’s very important.”

His head turns back toward her, and it feels for a moment or two as if he’s silently debating with himself. Then, as he stares at her, a set of small lines she can just barely make out in the shifting light wrinkles his brow.

“I find no humor in this matter either, Anya,” he says, placing the slightest emphasis on her name. “Except, perhaps, what little there is to be found on the cosmic scale. I had rather assumed we’d seen the last of one another back in France.”

His tone is once again too dry for her to ascertain whether or not he’s disappointed by the current developments, so she decides to postpone the defensiveness for now.

“So had I,” she replies, narrowly keeping herself from adding a rather too-honest _I was sort of counting on it._ That type of remark sounds very rude, and she doesn’t mean it that way, not at all. “I wouldn’t be here now, only—”

The memory of what she’s doing, in Denmark generally rather than these woods specifically, spears through her and she breaks off. What she feels regarding this subject in no way matches what he probably thinks, and she realizes for the first time with a queasy, unforgiving clarity, that quite a lot of people in Russia must have rejoiced when they heard the same news that sinks her spirits. Another vile oppressor finally expunged from the world—that’s how it would most likely be viewed. Certainly, they would not mourn as she mourned.

_Mourns._

“Were you here when it happened?” she inquires abruptly, wrapping her arms around herself and turning her whole body to face him in the hope that the motion will stave off the dull ache of loss that’s trying again to infiltrate her. “Did they send you to make sure she was…gone?”

He’s quiet for a bit before his eyes shift to meet hers. “I was elsewhere,” he says.

“Meaning what?” She catches it again, that hesitation right before the vague not-a-yes, not-a-no answer, and discovers with no little surprise that she both distrusts his careful evasion and believes with a kind of unblinking, gut-instinct that he’s not lying to her. “There are many elsewheres in the world, Gleb.”

“Most assuredly, there are,” he agrees. “But as I was located in this particular elsewhere for purposes that cannot be divulged, I’m afraid the details must start and end there.”

“Why?”

He levels a look at her that says she’s trifling a hair with his patience. “Official business.”

“Of what sort?”

She’s essentially ignoring the restrictions he’s placing now, but she sees no reason to regret that. If he’s going to insist on this stilted manner of talking, then she’ll make it as difficult as possible for him to maintain that air. Sooner or later, she reasons, he’ll either have to answer honestly, or resort to the most childish form of defense—and she has trouble imagining the man beside her abandoning his dignity to the point of repeating _no_ like a stubborn three year-old.

“Of the sort I won’t discuss,” he responds shortly, tone sharpening.

Anya’s face creases into a scowl he misses since he’s once again not looking at her. “Why not?”

He huffs out a breath, straightening up before he sends her a stern frown. “If your aim is to talk until I’m exasperated into supplying information I’ve no intention of supplying, I warn you—you’ll have a long job of it.”

“I am only _asking_ ,” she returns haughtily, even though it’s not strictly true. Or really, even partially true. “Though perhaps if you weren’t so stingy with your words, we might be able to have an actual conversation rather than one of us interrogating the other, or both of us just…screaming.”

There’s no outward reaction, but she gets the sense she’s surprised him anyway. Good. If he’s surprised, it’s possible he might let himself react without filtering anything, and she expects that will be helpful. She’s not at all skilled at digging for clues; inquiring right out is so much less confusing.

“You may ask all you want,” he says almost casually. “I still cannot answer.”

“Cannot—or will not?” Anya queries, this time making sure to curl her lip into what feels like a rather excellent sneer.

If he’s riled by her tone, he still doesn’t show it. “Either way. The end result is the same.”

Her eyes roll heavenward, and she scoots farther back on the log with a huff. For a long moment, she stares up at the snow-covered branches silhouetted against the sky; then, on impulse, she turns deliberately back to her companion and gives him her absolute best grimace—lips contorted, tongue out, eyes simultaneously squinting and pop-eyed. And it must in some way work, because after a moment of clear confusion, a rather odd expression crosses Gleb’s face and he shakes his head.

“Are you done?” he says in a tone that implies he’s addressing a small child.

“Possibly,” Anya returns, the urge to make another—worse—face immaturely strong. “I suppose it depends on whether or not you’ll provide me an explanation as to why you’re attending parties in Denmark at the homes of very dishonorable men.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Would it appear less suspicious to you if I were to say I climbed in through an open window with the intention of pilfering spirits that belonged to someone else?”

Her cheeks heat despite the cold, but she manages to ignore the light jibe and frown back. “Have you become an…assassin now?” she says, holding in the bone-jarring trembles that arise at the thought. “Were you there to kill someone?”

“No.”

He doesn’t specify which question he’s answering, but the stern set of his jaw suggests it’s both at once. And, strangely enough, it comforts her. If he resents the implication that his job is of that nature, then it must be something—well, if not _good,_ at least something that won’t put her in immediate danger.

“Are you a diplomat?” she asks suddenly, the ideas fished up by her brain spilling out. “A spy?”

He lifts his eyebrows again, and she decides to take that in conjunction with the non-denial as confirmation. Because of course that occupation cannot be explained, and of course his superiors would want to reward him for investigating a case they believe to be well-closed by now.

“Oh,” she says, fiddling with a pocket on her coat and trying to not wonder what, if anything, he’s meant to be doing tonight instead of sitting in the middle of the woods. “I suppose I should congratulate you. I presume it's a promotion?”

“Thank you.” His tone stays ambiguous, though the set of his jaw seems to grow a little grimmer. “You presume correctly.”

“You must be very proud.”

It comes out snide, and Anya waffles for a moment on whether she’s ashamed of herself for allowing that bit of pettiness to escape or not. He doesn’t seem overjoyed at (or even pleased by) what is ostensibly his very good fortune, and no doubt that counts for something and maybe it even means she’s a little unkind for poking at whatever bruises he’s hiding, but all the same—it irks her to watch him behave as though he’s speaking to someone he’s only just met. Whatever sense and reason have to say about it, they are _not_ mere acquaintances. And maybe they’re not friends, but they’re not exactly enemies, either…if they were, at least one of them would be dead by now.

“I believe the only pride really worth taking is pride in doing one’s duty,” he says after a beat or two. “So yes, I suppose that in a way…I am proud.”

She wonders if he told himself something similar after Paris—if meeting her again eases or accelerates whatever guilt lingers behind that stolid, militaristic manner of his. In her heart of hearts, she doesn’t think he’s disappointed to see her alive, but his distinct lack of that kindly warmth she remembers from before she left Russia gives her pause. Now, he’s polite—but not genuinely polite. Now, he refuses nearly every blatant invitation to talk.

And he calls her _Anya_ in almost insultingly formal tones.

“You said in Paris you believed I was her,” she remarks at length, aware she resembles a small child with both the question and the way her hands are folded in her lap, but too desperate to care. “Why do you think that? What was it that convinced you?”

“This is what you prefer to discuss?” he says mildly. “Would you not rather brainstorm potential travel plans considering you’re on foot and rather obviously lacking a solid plan?”

“I am confident I’ll be able to figure something out,” she replies, lifting her chin a little on the words. “Is this another attempt to dodge a subject you find distasteful?”

“No.”

“No?” she challenges.

He sighs, slumping a little as he angles his head to look toward the darkest part of the river. “You are incorrigible.”

“Not really. Just very curious. And very determined.”

It’s difficult to make out his expression in the shadows, but she thinks he smiles a little as he shakes his head. “I…did begin to suspect that some time ago.”

“Can you just answer?”

He hesitates again, fingers drumming against the cold bark. After a bit he stands again, the jerkiness of his movements suggesting that he’s thinking of pacing.

“Please, Gleb,” she presses, scooting forward and waving a mittened hand until it catches his attention. “I know that it isn’t the pleasantest thing to discuss, but I have so few details about it all. Everything I know, I know only because my heart tells me it’s so—because I _want_ to believe in the truths my dreams seem to reveal. No one can confirm them; all they can ever do is tell me I’m crazy, or spin stories so beautiful and perfect that I can’t trust them. You didn’t want me to be…her, but you believed anyway—or at least you said you did. Why? What made you believe?”

He's pacing now, and while he paces and she waits with baited breath for a reply, a cloud shifts somewhere overhead, un-bottling a hazy aura of moonshine and splashing silvery puddles of light all over the barren world around them. She can see his face clearer, the way his jaw muscles grow taut as he appears to weigh his words carefully, and for a good long moment it seems like he’s going to decline to answer again.

“Please?” she says again, and he sighs.

“It’s your eyes,” he says—in a rush, almost like he’s confessing some hidden trespass. “That was what began it for me. I didn’t realize it at first, or else didn’t want to because I was too distrac—because it’s not the sort of thing one thinks to consider, but after I heard the news of your escape aboard the train…I couldn’t stop thinking about the way you looked at me.”

“The way I…looked at you?” she repeats haltingly, a ripple of something she can’t quite define wending its way through her as she tries to figure out what he’s talking about. So far as she was aware, her only thoughts concerning him at that precise period in time had been ones of fear—fear that he would turn her in, fear that he would use her to lead back to Nana, Vlad, and Dmitry, fear that she would say something she oughtn’t in front of him that would be the end of her. “I don’t understand. What do you mean? How did I look at you?”

He pauses his motions, glancing down, and she realizes with a start that she’s involuntarily caught hold of his forearm as he passed. Yanking her hand back into her chest, she rubs awkwardly at her wrist and mumbles an apology which (thankfully) he accepts with a nod and doesn’t address.

“You have…a manner about you,” he says. “A certain air.”

It’s such a nebulous answer that she can barely contain her frustration. “‘A manner’ is not helpful, Gleb. Neither is ‘a certain air.’”

This time, the smile in his voice also translates to his face. “I’m referring to the one you assume whenever you are frightened or displeased, comrade. Rather like now.”

_Now?_ Anya’s argument retreats down her throat as she takes note for the first time of her rigid, poised-for-combat posture and the way her brows are knitted together. Yes, perhaps he has a point.

“Very well,” she says, doing her best to smooth out the scowl. “I have an air. Go on.”

“The only time I could recall seeing so pure an expression of disdain was many years ago. When I watched the gates of the House close on the Romanov family and the youngest daughter chanced to look my way.”

He says it quietly, almost casually, but the revelation still sends an eerie shiver meandering down her spine. Somewhere, deep in the chaotic whirlpool of her memories, she recalls that he once mentioned seeing Anastasia. But she was too on-edge then to pay much attention to it, too preoccupied with trying to seem unthreatening and innocent, and she was also not sure herself of her identity. Now, hearing him say it again, a hazy tableau begins to form deep in the recesses of her mind—a grim, weather-beaten place with high walls designed to prevent escape, steel-eyed soldiers milling around and muttering amongst themselves, mud, _so much_ mud. A wriggly little dog whimpering, a clump of nervous figures carrying luggage, more and more steel-eyed soldiers...

_One who stared so long and hard from a distance that it felt as though his eyes bored into her, like he was issuing some juvenile form of challenge…_

“You were there,” she says, sitting back as the muscles in her shoulders tense. “You were with one of the first sets of soldiers.” He nods, and for some reason it reminds her of something else she remembers wanting to say. “You were very young. I thought you were too young to be trying to seem so tough. And very rude for staring so hard.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Perhaps I was. Though I suspect I had little intention of worrying how my conduct might appear in the cultured eyes of Russia’s oppressors.”

Anya’s lips tighten at the derisive lilt in his tone, but just as she's on the verge of taking umbrage at the remark, the blistering lights and abundance of crystal, beaded silks, and superficial laughter at the ballet rises up before her mind’s eye, and she winces.

Right. Of course.

As much as she adores Paris and its dazzling beauty, the extravagance on near-constant display over there sometimes galls her. Having herself now lived with a growling stomach and shivered under bridges at night, it’s not difficult to imagine how despicable her family’s vast store of wealth must have seemed to those forced to survive on very little. Even now, remnants of the opulence afforded everyone attached to the imperial life are still apparent, and when she closes her eyes and hears again the stiff rustle of embroidered taffeta dragging across gleaming floors, sees the gold embedded in walls and gilding any number of unnecessary pieces of furniture, it makes her shiver a little. There was a chandelier, she thinks—a luminous, sparkling thing of exquisite craftsmanship that floated overhead with almost otherworldly splendor, its dangling crystals like suspended ice particles or diamonds set ablaze, and perhaps it wasn’t just one chandelier after all. Perhaps it was hundreds, and each more lavish than the last.

“Were they— _we_ —really such monsters?” she asks softly, assailed by remorse for a past she glimpsed the forlorn relics of in Paris. “Did you really hate us so much?”

“Anya…”

The muscles in his jaw grow taut as he stares unseeingly into the shadows of the bridge, so she takes a chance and touches his hand. He meets her gaze reluctantly, shifting from one foot to the other like he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, and she thinks absently as he takes the hint and sits back down in a huff that he is too straightforward for the job he now apparently holds. Spies must be excellent liars to be of any use, and though Gleb is very dedicated and industrious, he is not a natural teller of untruths. Honesty trickles out of him despite his best efforts to suppress it, and he lacks the circuitous finesse necessary to mislead or soften a blow. Even though he _says_ nothing, his demeanor betrays him as completely as a shouted tirade.

“I saw the way everyone lives back in Paris,” she tells him to break the heavy silence. “At the Neva Club, at…other places. The fine clothing, the jewels—”

“The vapid frivolity built on the backs of others’ efforts and maintained through systematic thievery?” he puts in, expression grimmer than ever. “The contempt for any way of life which does not cater to their every whim?”

“Yes.” She moves over to sit closer to him, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her chin atop the somewhat-knobby surface of her skirt as she looks out at the shadowy bluffs. “And also the sadness. The mourning for what’s been lost, and the longing for what’s comfortable and familiar. For home and loved ones and safety.”

“Home.” He makes an impatient movement. “These people are not innocent, Anya.”

“Who is?” she murmurs, thinking of the diamond she withheld so many times rather than using it to feed herself or others around her. “People are not so very different. Not where it counts. At some point or other, we all want things we shouldn’t. We want to be happy, to feel _good_ about who we are, to enjoy whatever bit of life we’re given. And sometimes we get so caught up in that desire that we forget to look beyond ourselves and we hurt others. Not intentionally, just—by forgetting to care.”

He glances sharply at her for a moment, then sighs and returns his gaze to the landscape before them. She lets another minute or so go by and then nudges his arm.

“Did you hate us?” she asks again, but softer.

Gleb’s shoulder lifts in a listless sort of shrug. “Yes. And in a way, no.”

Her brows draw together. “What?”

He shrugs again. “Hatred is very personal. I never met any of you, so how could my sentiments truly _be_ hatred? If anything, I suppose the most apt description is that I hate what the Romanovs stood for. The years, the…the _centuries_ of tyranny and oppression they represented. Countless Russian lives lost, rivers of blood spilled, dissenters imprisoned and executed for daring to speak the truth, and for what—the pretense of a prosperous country? The benefit of a chosen few who basked in luxury while their fellow countrymen suffered and starved? The best I could manage in person was seething resentment. And after that night…” He gives his head a shake, jaw clenching and unclenching. “I don’t know. I imagine there is probably a reason I remember that night so vividly. That I’ve always told myself my father was only doing his duty. The instant a soldier begins to question orders…”

Tilting her head to see him better, Anya internally catalogues the rigidity of his posture—the way he stares straight ahead as if looking at something other than the ground, the river, the trees. He’s almost wooden now, like he’s reading a report or reciting a lesson, and something about it clicks for her.

Duty. Orders.

“Is that why you wanted so badly to kill me?” she asks. “Because you were trying to fulfill your father’s duty? Because…it felt like _your_ duty?”

He flinches as though she’s struck him. “I did not _want_ to kill you, Anya. Not ever, but especially not after—”

His voice halts like a gramophone that’s been switched off mid-verse, and she frowns at the abrupt amputation of the sentence. “After what?”

Gleb huffs out a dry laugh. Pressing a finger to the spot between his brows like he’s got a headache, he mumbles what sounds like it might be a curse under his breath before leveling an exasperated stare at her. But buried just beneath the surface of the apparent irritation is a spark of something that makes her suddenly, profusely glad the darkness is once again too thick for him to see the blood that rushes to her cheeks. That first time he spoke to her on the Nevsky Prospect—calm at first, then commanding, then clumsily—she almost thought that perhaps she had made a stronger impression on him than she ever intended to. But it seemed such a foolish notion in retrospect that she’d dismissed it nearly at once; what appeal could there possibly be about an ill-at-ease street sweeper who panicked, flung her broom aside, and fell to the ground at the mere sound of a backfiring truck? And certainly a deputy commissioner would never dream of stooping to look twice at a smudge-faced girl mixed up in a scheme involving conmen and Romanovs. 

Now, however, her insides squirm in response to his silence and the wild, nervous, intangible _something_ that filled her once upon a time when he tipped her chin up flickers to life again. Stronger, this time, only with less fear—or perhaps more.

More of a different kind.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” she says in what she hopes is a casual tone, poking at a loose clump of twigs so she can keep her eyes on the ground and dodge a subject she’s not quite prepared to handle. “I just—you were very upset in Paris? I thought perhaps it might not all have been because you were angry with me for lying and…also not-lying.”

He gives an ambiguous sort of grunt. “Perhaps.”

“I thought you were sad,” she ventures, risking a glance at him. “Underneath all of the scary anger, I mean. And that you were all the angrier because you knew you were sad and didn’t want to be.”

“I see.” Lips pinched together in a thin line, Gleb crosses his arms over his chest. “And do all of these accusations have a purpose?” he inquires in a crisp, clinical tone that tells her she’s definitely on the correct track.

“I think so.” Waiting until his eyes drift toward hers since he’s currently addressing her left ear, she offers up the most honest smile she can muster. “Whatever our differences Gleb, I believe you _are_ a good and loyal Russian. Your father did what he felt he must, and so did you. So _do_ you.”

She means to encourage, or at least compliment, but instead, his expression twists into some odd smile-grimace hybrid.

“Do I?” he says with more than a little touch of irony as he stands again.

Anya pauses, head listing to one side as she mulls that over. And—yes, perhaps he has a point. Aiding her in Russia was kindness. Aiding her in Paris was foolish. Aiding her now, again, in Denmark, in this way, is an affront to probably every political ideal he’s ever held, and he even admitted he doesn’t know why he’s doing it. According to the rules he follows, there is hardly anything _more_ disloyal that he could do.

All the same, she finds it difficult to believe that any gesture of kindness or humanity, even if the reasons behind it cannot be defined or do stem solely from a desire to assuage some past guilt, poses a disgrace to Russia herself. No matter how broken and damaged it may become, if a land rooted in hard work and advanced through bloody struggles between its people forgets how to forgive or be merciful or even just _heal_ , isn’t that the greatest tragedy of all? Isn’t refusing to learn lessons from past mistakes the true disgrace? Isn’t it the cruelties that linger longest and the simplest things that end up mattering the most?

“I’ll take your silence as confirmation to the contrary, then.”

“No.” She looks up quickly, frowning a little as she takes in his statue-like stance and tries to translate its significance. “I was just thinking.”

“Of?” he says, the wariness of the question blanketed a bit by the half-smile that accompanies it.

“Russia,” she explains. He (unsurprisingly) doesn’t appear to be following, so she presses on. “I miss her. Not just the mountains, or the rivers and the fields and the trees, and all the other beautiful parts, but the noise and dirt on the streets, too. And the people. I’ve seen so many places since I left, but the feeling is never the same. Russia will always be the home of my heart, but the love I hold onto isn’t built around how proud I am of her, or whether or not I believe I have done what others tell me is my duty toward my country. It’s just love.” 

He blinks at her in silence, brows raised then drawing together. “I beg your pardon?” he says at last.

Anya sighs, waving her hands about as she tries to illustrate. “You love Russia. You want the best for her. That makes you a good and loyal Russian, whether you fulfill all your silly marching orders or not.”

“Thank you,” he says, though he looks more than a little offended at the addition of _silly._ “But if you don’t mind, I would rather not examine the definition of loyalty too closely just now.”

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to insult you.”

“I am not insulted.”

Anya squints up at him. “Then you’re that unhappy with yourself for helping me?”

“No, I—yes. No.” He clamps his mouth shut, movements becoming awkward as he props his back against a nearby tree trunk. “Actually, I believe I’d rather not give that any thought, either.”

She nods, biting back another _why?_ Dragging them back around the circle again won’t improve anything, and maybe if he’s confused enough to let all the frustrating calmness slip, maybe he’ll also be more inclined to own up to some other things she’s wondered about.

“Gleb?”

“Yes?”

“The day I met you.” She doesn’t fully mean to introduce this topic of conversation, especially since it has already been hinted at and left her a bundle of nerves, but once it’s out there, she decides she may as well go ahead and pursue it before she overthinks herself out of asking. Because as much as she _thinks,_ she also doesn’t _know,_ and if she never sees him again after tonight, that unknown will haunt her forever. “In the square, when you gave me back my broom?”

“Yes?” he says again, and though he’s perfectly solemn, it sounds a great deal like he’s trying not to smile. “I remember.”

_That’s something, then._ “Did you like me?”

Had she chosen to suddenly pull the remaining lump of cheese out of her coat pocket and crash it into his face, she doesn’t think he could look more thunderstruck.

“Did I…did I _what_?” he says, blinking like he’s too taken aback to fully understand what’s happening.

“Did you like me.” Her skin crawls with embarrassment, but the words are out there now with no chance of recall, so she plunges onward. “I know that afterward you called us friends, but I mean did you like me then as…as not a friend?”

He stares at her, what she can see of his face stunned and frozen. “I…I, yes. I did.”

“Oh.” She writhes inwardly at how tiny the word sounds, but it isn’t as though she can help it. So, she wasn’t imagining things. “I didn’t even think…”

“I thought that was—I’m sorry, was that not made rather humiliatingly clear to you?”

“No.” Mind racing to catch up with her mouth, she balls the hand holding her skirt into a fist. “I mean, I did wonder at first—you were very kind, and you asked…but I was very nervous every time we spoke. It made me not wonder much, and then in Paris...”

“Of course.” He bobs his head once, hands once more clasped immovably behind his back like he’s awaiting orders, and it clashes strangely with the awkward laugh he coughs out. “Naturally. I…can imagine why you wouldn’t wonder.”

“Do you like me still?”

If possible, Gleb goes even stiffer and she immediately bites her tongue, staring hard at the half-shadowed, half-glittering buttons of his coat in an effort to hide her wretchedness; because what _is_ she thinking? And what in the name of heaven is taking Dmitry so long to arrive and stop the painful awkwardness of this conversation with his presence? She needs to be on her way, not mentioning every other notion that flits through her mind to a man she barely knows when he’s still undecided as to why he’s lending his assistance to her, and did he like her when he held her hand and bid her goodbye, or did the suspicion of her true identity taint all that for him?

And why, most of all, does she keep feeling the urge to know?

“I’m sorry!” she blurts out after what feels like eons of a bulky, ill-fitting silence. “I shouldn’t be asking you this. I don’t mean to pry or make things uncomfortable, I only—I’m sorry. Thank you for helping me, but I should go now.”

She stands at top speed and turns to go, deciding it’s better to lurk alone in the countryside than to stand around here gabbling any longer, but his hand snags her wrist before she can move more than a step or two. The grip is lighter this time than it was back at the mansion, but it halts her every bit as effectively, and the warmth that somehow manages to pass all the way through his glove and her sleeve is electrifying.

Slowly, cautiously, her heart like hoofbeats in her chest, she turns again—this time, to find the dark wool of his coat so close to her face that she can actually smell its sharp, musty odor. For a moment or two they both stand stock still, the only sign of life between them the bluish cloud of smoke floating up from either her nervous breaths or his. Then, as gently and inexorably as if he knows she’s thinking seriously of bolting, he slides a finger just under the edge of her chin and it’s like she’s caught in a repeat dream as her head tilts upward and her skin grows hot.

“Yes,” he says softly, and her stomach flips upside down as his gaze warms into something she knows immediately she won’t be able to hold long. “I am afraid I still like you very much.”

“Why?”

It’s another foolish question, of course. One that implies the existence of a satisfactory answer when she herself can scarcely explain her eagerness to know, and she winces internally as she hears herself ask it in a faint voice that sounds as if it belong to someone else.

But if he sees anything untoward in the demand, Gleb doesn’t let on. He merely shrugs, something akin to misery in his eyes as the gloved finger beneath her chin trails along the line of her jaw and hesitates before a small clump of hair that pokes out haphazardly from her hat.

“If I knew the answer to that, comrade,” he murmurs, so low that she seems to feel rather than hear it as he goes ahead and pushes back the flyaway locks, “I would have forced myself to stop a very long time ago.”

The chilled leather of his glove catches the tip of her ear as he withdraws his hand, and Anya swallows hard. Her mouth and throat are suddenly dry as a summer haystack, and a shiver that has nothing to do with cold—or fear—rumbles through her.

“Would you?” she says. “Really?”

Dimly, she’s appalled at her own bluntness and can tell by the way he freezes that she’s managed to surprise him, too. But beneath the seeming arrogance of her challenge lies the uncompromisingly contradictory memory of a man who, despite being duty-bound to either kill her instantly or take her into custody, instead begged her to abandon the idea of a resurrected grand duchess. With absolutely nothing and no one to stop him, he still couldn’t bring himself to end her life, and rather than dragging her back to Russia, he left. Rather than pursuing her himself or putting others on her trail, or even hanging around to ensure she wouldn’t lay claim to a nonexistent throne, he walked away trusting she wouldn’t and swept a figurative broom across her tracks. Even though he looked into her eyes and decided he recognized the past gleaming back out at him, he _chose_ to allow the specter of Anastasia Romanova to either fade into legend or grow into historical fact—just like Nana did, he chose to leave the outcome up to her.

And surely (though she supposes it matters very little in the grand scheme of things), a choice of that magnitude means whatever amount of _like_ he feels isn’t wholly involuntary? 

“If I could…” He shakes his head, eyes crinkling with a humor that’s too far removed from mirth to be anything other than frightening. “Oh, what does it matter? What has anyone ever gained by dwelling on things that might be if one merely _hopes_ hard enough?”

“So that is truly what you want, then?” she says, unsure whether she’s angry or shaken by the idea that he sees ghosts and forgone possibilities only when he looks at her. “To hate me?”

“No.” His sardonic tone falters, the intensity of his stare tempered only by a tiny, rueful upward curl of the lips as he takes a step away from her. “But what a man wants and what he must _do_ , Anya—they are rarely the same thing.”

“I don’t understand.” He chuckles, again too much without humor for her liking, and she catches him fast by the lapel of his coat when he starts taking another step of retreat. “And I don’t believe you do, either. I believe you’re only saying that because it’s easier to tell yourself you’re constrained by duty than it is to realize you do have a choice.”

“Anya…”

His frustration slices through the air, and even though a cloud’s dimmed the moon yet again, it’s not difficult to see the nervous rhythm his hand taps out against his side. But if he’s obstinate, she’s more so, and another non-answer isn’t something she’s willing to allow—not _now;_ not after he’s admitted all these clashing details… _I’m helping you, I don’t know why I’m helping you. I liked you, I still like you, I don’t_ want _to still like you, I also don’t want to hate you._

Which, she wonders, resisting the urge to throw her hands up, is it?

“What, Gleb?” she demands, propping her fists atop her hips when several more seconds tick by without him speaking. “Go on and explain it to me! Tell me why you insist on the world being black and white, why you can’t stop liking me like you want to, why you don’t want to even _think_ about why you keep helping me! Don’t act as if it’s of no consequence, or just some unfortunate weakness you’re suffering from that’ll pass soon enough— _make_ me understand.”

His jaw flexes, a thunderstorm that would have frightened her once upon a time brewing on his face. “No.”

“No?” she repeats, scowl rising to match his. “You really think I can just accept that as an answer?”

Eyes flashing, he holds her glare for a second before starting toward a different grove of trees as though he’s making to climb up the embankment and check the road that runs over the bridge. “I do think that, yes.”

“No!” she snaps back, hitching up her skirts so she can dart in front of him and cut off his retreat. “ _No._ Now _I’m_ the one who gets to say that, because this is important and we may very well never get this opportunity again! We are in a _forest,_ Gleb. One you drove me to. _After_ you tried to kill me in Paris and then didn’t, _after_ you let me off with a warning in your office, and _after_ you stopped to help me on the street. I have been confused, about _all_ of those things, for over a year now. Every time I remember my homeland I also remember you, and I even felt _guilty_ more times than I care to recall because I was certain you’d be punished for sparing my life.”

“You should not have...felt guilty,” he says haltingly.

Anya makes a face at the overly-prim tone. “Believe me, I don’t pretend to know how it is in any way possible to worry over the safety of the man who tried to assassinate me. I just _do_. So please forgive me if I find you saying nothing more than ‘no’ a little too much to just…take in!”

“I—it’s not…” He grits his teeth, clearly struggling to formulate a response before a door seems to slam somewhere inside in his eyes and he straightens up to his full height. “My apologies as well if you’re dissatisfied,” he bites out, a petulant, defensive look she imagines he must’ve worn as a child replacing the prior glare. “But as it stands right now, forest or no forest, ‘no’ is the _only_ answer you will get. I did not smuggle you out of that house so that you could evaluate my life’s motives, comrade, and I won’t—”

“So why did you smuggle me out?” she interrupts, gripping the trunk of a nearby tree for balance as she steps up onto a nearby chunk of rock so that she doesn’t have to glare up quite as far. “You could have left me to be caught and locked up. Instead of struggling to invent replies, you could be dining in comfort and I could be someone else’s problem right now.”

“And you think that fact has somehow neglected to cross my mind?” he scoffs, doubling her annoyance since she catches a quickly-smothered flicker of unease in his eyes. “I assure you, had I known then I’d be having _this_ conversation, I might have chosen quite differently.”

“Oh, you would, would you?”

“I very well might!”

Folding her arms, she stares belligerently at him and wishes (not for the first time) that she were at least half a head taller. _It must be so much easier to intimidate another person with height on one’s side._ “I don’t believe you.”

Glower intensifying, he leans down until they’re finally at eye level. “I. Don’t _. Care_.”

“Hah.” Anya’s fingers burrow deep into the scratchy surface of her coat as she struggles to both maintain the fragile grip on her temper and keep from shying away now that his nose is so disconcertingly close to hers. “I don’t believe that either! I think you’re afraid, _comrade_. I think you tell yourself you have an obligation to duty because it frightens you to think about how often your heart disagrees with your orders, how if you let yourself, you might find that half the things you pretend to believe—”

“You…” He raises a finger like he’s about to warn her or make a speech, then clamps his mouth shut abruptly, so tense that he’s visibly shaking. “You are far too curious and obstinate for your own safety.”

“ _I_ am the obstinate one? _Me_?”

Now irrationally seething, she draws in an enormous lungful of the sharp, icy air, intent on advancing her cause in whatever argument this is. But when she sticks her face closer to his, trying to mimic his attitude of righteous indignation, something about the way he’s staring down at her—eyes blazing, cheeks almost hollowed out as he presses his lips together in what’s clearly an attempt to keep in check whatever emotion’s struggling to escape—drains the words from her. Simultaneously, the dissolution of her tirade kindles an overwhelming bout of agitation deep within her; one that spreads throughout her body and freezes all thought as rapidly as the bone-chilling onset of a Russian winter.

“ _Well_ ,” she sputters at last, horribly conscious of both the uneven pattern of her breathing and the heat she could swear she feels emanating off of him, “at least I’m not hopelessly _confusing,_ or, or, or in _denial_ about things I don’t want to talk about! At least I’m not lying to myself for fear I’ll discover that what I want goes against everything I think I _ought_ to want!”

Is she imagining it, or do his eyes drift toward her lips just before he swallows heavily? Heart racing, she forces herself to hold her ground against a strong and steadily rising paroxysm of wild impulse. Suppose—just suppose—she were to stretch up a tiny bit farther, or he were to bend down just a hair more? Suppose she were to forget for a moment that she can only name superficial, basic occupational facts about this inconsistent, utterly perplexing man whose path keeps intersecting most inconveniently with hers? Suppose he were to suddenly abandon his precious tenets and choose to stop despising himself for aiding the person who represents the antithesis of everything he holds sacred, and suppose, just suppose…

Soft and furtive, precise and unmistakable, the thought flits through her head with the hushed clarity of a whisper traveling over open water: _Suppose I were to kiss him?_

But it’s a mad thought, one with absolutely no sense to back it up, and Anya’s scalp prickles with horror the instant after it arises.

“I…I only mean,” she says faintly, trying and failing to ignore the blood thundering in her ears, “I don’t like when people work so hard to avoid the truth that lies become all they’ll allow themselves to believe.”

“I’m not _avoiding_ the truth, Anya,” he murmurs in a voice so strained she’s immediately torn between reaching out to comfort him and shying away for fear of what consequences that sort of movement might bring with it. “If it were only that simple, then perhaps I—”

“Perhaps what?”

When he shakes his head, she sees it. The same haunted gleam she’s seen in her own eyes, in the eyes of so many others along the many roadways of Russia, and the wild impulse at last wins out. Spurning caution, she lays a hand on the side of his face and goosebumps utterly unrelated to the frigid breeze trickle down her spine as he looks at her, startled.

“Perhaps _what?_ ” she repeats, gentler this time.

“Anya…” His hand comes up to cover hers, and it’s like Paris all over again. Even through the double layers of his gloves and her mittens, she could swear she feels the warmth of his palm seeping into her skin—and it ought to be soothing, but instead it burns like fire. His fingers tighten momentarily around hers and one of them, maybe her, maybe him, maybe both of them, trembles at the contact. “I cannot apologize for my father, for…for deeds he performed in the line of duty. For the good of Russia. I can’t, any more than I can undo what’s been done.”

“And neither can I.” Her thumb brushes across his jaw, less consciously than reflexively, and she stills at once when the wool snags on a bit of the rough stubble that’s accumulated on his face and she finally notices what she’s doing. “I suppose that’s where the trouble lies, isn’t it? We’re all guilty of something, whether we mean to be or not.”

The tension grooves around his mouth deepen, but his touch is almost tender as he recaptures her thumb and pries her hand from his cheek.

“I cannot even apologize for my own deeds,” he says, the smile he attempts flimsy and pained as he brings their joined hands to his chest. “Let alone attempt to atone for them. I’m no longer certain which road is right and which wrong. Russia is nothing without the lives and honor of her people, but if the freedom to live with honor cannot be obtained save through gunfire and bloodshed, then maybe…”

He trails off, head bowing, and Anya’s heart constricts. Many nights, when her only companions were a growling stomach, the night wind, and the stars twinkling far above like remote, indifferent jewels, she would pass the time asking herself _why_ —why independence felt so lonely, and progress so cruel, and true, honest kindness like a luxury rarer than magic. But it was not until she found herself in Paris, faced with deciding between a life that belonged to someone who was possibly swallowed up long ago on a cursed night in Yekaterinburg and a life of her own choosing that she truly understood.

Winding her free hand around his and clutching it firmly between hers, she tilts her head so that she can peer up into his face.

“Revolutions are not simple, comrade,” she says with all the humor her rickety nerves and unsteady voice will allow. “Nothing ever is. Not when it involves people.”

He raises his head to stare at her for what feels like an eternity, eyes alight and teeming with some barely-contained furor as they bore into hers. Dimly, she’s conscious of the leafless branches creaking and swirling overhead, of the icy wind that whistles around them and burrows through every looser patch of clothing; mostly, she’s consumed by how the silence between them grows so large and stifling that it seems as though she’s on the brink of suffocation. Beads of cold, clammy sweat dampen her palms and chill her forehead, adding to the falling sensation that invades her stomach when his gaze falters. She watches in strange fascination as his chest rises and falls, rises and falls, rises and falls, in increasingly rapid succession, and thinks in a hazy, frantic sort of way that if he doesn’t say or do something soon, she’s going to explode into a million little fragments of petrified energy. Then, just when she’s convinced she can’t bear the strain of it all another second, the stony set of his jaw crumbles and, muttering something that sounds awfully close to _Such a fool,_ he leans in.

For the space of two thumping heartbeats, his mouth hovers above hers and probably, he’s going to kiss her. Probably, if she stands still just one moment longer, he’ll lean the rest of the way in and bridge this impossible gap before one or the other of them regains their sanity and backs away.

But Anya no longer possesses the patience to wait and see. This pause on the heels of all those other interminable pauses is too much for her strung-out nerves, and the instant he shows signs of halting, she frees her hands and grabs him by either side of his coat collar. Hauling him toward her with more vigor than caution, she loses sight of everything around her just long enough for her foot to slide off the uneven surface of the rock, and now she's falling. Gleb reacts swiftly, however, and her senses swarm with butterflies when the arm he slings around her waist to stop her headlong tumble into the snow instead lands her full-tilt against his chest.

“Careful,” he says, and she nods feverishly as her hands settle atop his shoulders. “Are—are you all right?”

“Yes.” He hasn’t let go, or even loosened the grip he has on her, so she takes a chance and leans into him even more than she already is. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

The stilted, professional artifice is back in his voice now, and Anya inwardly curses her own clumsiness for allowing him time to question himself yet again.

“Wait,” she blurts when she feels him begin to withdraw his arm, but right as his eyes lock on hers, snow crunches behind them.

“Anya?” a loud whisper asks, and the moment is shattered.

As speedily as though they pre-rehearsed it, Anya and Gleb spring apart. Whirling around, Anya smooths back a clump of hair that doesn’t exist and does her best to seem relieved rather than startled at the snow-covered apparition who’s just emerged from the trees.

“Dmitry,” she greets him in what she hopes is something other than an unnaturally high-pitched voice. “Where on earth have you been?”

“Oh, around,” her companion of the last year responds with only half-bitter cheer. “Actually, around, over, under, _and_ through, if you want to be exact. Several times. If I smell like a Danish sewer, please don’t mention it. And say, who is this? Don’t tell me you actually managed to make new friends in the middle of a foreign forest?”

“Oh,” Anya stumbles, glancing in the indicated direction to see that Gleb’s in that too-erect, on-guard posture again, though the poor light masks whatever expression he’s wearing. “No, ah, this is Gleb. Gleb, Dmitry, Dmitry, Gleb.”

Gleb inclines his head with studied politeness but offers nothing beyond that, and Anya winces when she sees Dmitry’s eyes narrow shrewdly as he not-so-subtly sizes up the other man.

“He’s not a new friend,” she hastens to explain, hoping she can forestall the inevitable _And how do we know we can trust him?_ question clearly brewing in her friend’s mind. “I knew him before. In Russia.”

And not in Russia too, though for reasons she’s never cared to examine closely, she hasn’t shared those particular details with anyone.

“Russia, hmm?” Dmitry comments almost dryly, arms folded as his head tilts to one side. “So you’re Gleb _Vaganov,_ then? As in _Deputy Commissioner_ Vaganov, the over-starched scourge of the Petersburg underworld and longwinded Bolshevik puppet who once got her out of a little trouble in town?”

“Dima,” Anya hisses, trying to glare at him though he’s not looking her way.

“ _Former_ over-starched scourge,” Gleb corrects in an even, if not-quite good-humored tone. “But of Leningrad, comrade. Not Petersburg.”

“Right, of course. Leningrad.” Head cocked to the side, Dmitry lifts an eyebrow. “And you just happened to run into her in the middle of nowhere, Denmark, did you?”

“Yes.” There’s no color whatsoever to his tone, but Anya somehow gets the distinct impression that Gleb enjoys the befuddled look his matter-of-fact response puts on Dmitry’s face. “I did, actually.”

“It’s a long story,” Anya interposes before anyone can say anything else. Miraculously enough, neither of them seems entirely hostile to the other, but she suspects that won’t last long if they continue to converse. “Dmitry, we _must_ leave if we intend to get out of here while it’s still dark. Do you think you can make it on the road?”

“If your goal is invisibility, I would avoid the road until daylight,” Gleb comments, right in the middle of Dmitry’s declaration that he’s able to _run_ to Roskilde if need be. “Too many vehicles returning at this late hour from parties. Anyone traveling on foot after sundown tends to incite gossip, and it’s wisest to take no chances on a visit such as this.”

Dmitry scoffs, but nods reluctantly, and Anya resists the urge to press her hands against her churning stomach as she turns around to bid farewell to the person she most doesn’t want to look in the eye right now.

“Thank you, Gleb,” she says, holding out a hand since it seems the only thing to do. “I really am very grateful for—everything. If I seemed otherwise at first…”

Her fingers feel heavy—large and clumsy, too—in the few seconds he hesitates and her vague goodbye dangles uselessly in midair. But just as she’s beginning to wonder if she ought to retract her hand and just leave, a faint, actually genuine smile appears on his face.

“No need to elaborate, comrade,” he says, grip closing firmly around hers. “I understand.”

Her hand feels small again in his, and resentment burns within her when she realizes he’s once again managed to find a neat way out of a messy discussion. But the thought that things might currently be very different had her foot not slipped on that rock niggles at her and she has to force herself to meet his eyes.

“If we run into one another again…” she offers tentatively, uncertain what she’s trying to say but knowing somehow it _must_ be said.

His smile widens, though it’s tinged with ruefulness. “If fate is at all merciful, we will not.”

“Are you being rude, or trying to make a joke?” she inquires in a low voice, sarcasm bleeding into reserve because she can’t help noticing the way the light pressure from his thumb sends a whole fleet of little tingles up her arm.

The smile morphs into a soft chuckle. (And contrarily, the sound burrows into her heart, both warming and terrifying her as it nestles close without invitation or reason. There is no sense in why her stomach sinks at the thought of walking in the opposite direction of him once again. Regret and loss are not things one feels toward someone who’s little more than a stranger; even more, the desire to eliminate his status as stranger should not be this strong. She doesn’t know him, and she shouldn’t want to. What _is_ it that ails her?)

“Perhaps both,” he says, squeezing her hand with a finality that stings. “Long life, Anya.”

“Long life,” she repeats, eyes narrowing a little as he starts briskly off in the direction they originally came from, tall and straight as though this is all routine. “And Gleb?”

He pauses midstride, glancing back at her over his shoulder. “Yes?”

The shadows have already begun to claim him, but Anya fancies she can still see the traces of a smile she wishes he’d not wear. It feels wrong to watch him walk away again, rather like the repetition of a previously-made mistake, but though his apparent nonchalance worsens that impression, she can still think of no good reason to insist he stay.

Not that he even would, of course. Because while he allegedly _likes_ her—still!—he also does not _want_ to like her. (And no, she is not offended by that. Of course not. It means absolutely nothing to her; she is insulted only by the insinuation that there is any actual _reason_ to dislike her. It has nothing to do with him personally. They are acquaintances with strangely interlocked histories, and besides that—he’s difficult. And really very pompous in his own polite way.)

“If fate isn’t merciful, I’ll expect a full account,” she announces, crossing her arms so he knows she’s serious. “Whether you wish to provide it or not.”

“Fair enough,” Gleb responds, reaching up to touch his hat almost mockingly. “But if it is unmerciful in any fashion similar to tonight, I reserve the right to renegotiate terms.”

Annoyance flickering, she gives a short nod back. “Very well. But only if I’m caught where I shouldn’t be.”

“Caught?” Dmitry remarks conversationally, reminding her for the first time that he’s still here. “What’s this, now? Was I right in assuming you weren’t too successful in that castle?”

Gleb spares him a glance that’s either irritated or amused. “I suggest you two exchange stories before setting off on the latter part of your journey. And that you reevaluate several of your thieving strategies. It will probably spare you quite a lot of trouble in the future.”

With one last nod, he turns his back and melts into the darkness, the soft echo of his footsteps fading away.

“Ah, yes,” Dmitry says. “Very helpful advice. Not at all vague or condescending.”

Anya ignores him, the strange clenching of her insides back again with a vengeance. From beginning to end, this day—or night, rather—has been surreal. In an odd way, it’s as if she’s lived three months in the space of one clock cycle, and an exhaustion that seems to stem from soul rather than body slinks viperously through her at that realization. Again, while trying to make her way to Nana, she met him. Again, he showed her kindness and she watched him leave. And again, she’s stuck wondering what, if anything, it all signifies, and why she feels as though any of it matters when common sense tells her it shouldn't.

“Come on,” she says, thumping Dmitry a little harder than necessary on the arm. “Standing around here gabbing won’t get us any closer to Roskilde.”

“Right,” Dmitry says in a tone that’s suddenly so speculative she immediately begins walking away from him. “Of course. Well, it’s this way, according to a marker I passed a while back, so if you want to switch directions...”

“Good.”

“Careful where you step, though. The path’s a little hazardous.”

For a wonder, he says nothing more serious than that and they trudge along in silence. It’s not until much, much later, when her feet are aching and the golden rays of the sun are glittering off the twin spires of the cathedral as they rise into view, that he finally clears his throat and turns her way.

“So,” he says in a voice that sounds suspiciously close to laughter. “Back there in the middle of the dark, enchanted forest…were you about to kiss Vaganov or kill him? And _why_?”

“I wasn’t going to do either,” Anya returns, grateful for the cold and exercise that provide some excuse for the telltale flush to her cheeks. “And don’t be silly, I hardly know him. I…I had slipped on a rock and he kept me from hitting the ground.”

“Yes, it bore a very strong resemblance to that.”

She writhes inwardly. “It’s the truth. I did. And he _did._ ”

“Oh, I don’t doubt there was some falling and catching involved,” Dmitry agrees in a tone so cheery and smug it’s exasperating. “Matter of fact, I couldn’t even if I wanted to because I saw it with my own two eyes. But it doesn’t explain how you went from not exiting that shameless two-or-three-story display of wealth on schedule to enlisting the help of a _Bolshevik_ officer who apparently took you all the way to the place of rendezvous.”

“He was just being kind.” _Or possibly feeling guilty._

“Yes, and that’s easily the scariest thing of all. Though for what it’s worth, I think the dear former deputy commissioner would be very happy to reenact that dramatic little tableau with you whenever you asked.”

Anya’s mind hops uncooperatively back to the closeness of that moment, and her cheeks flame. “Be quiet, Dima.”

“And also for what it’s worth, I suspect he might not be the only one not wholly against reenacting it.”

This time, she delivers a smart whack to his shoulder. “I said, be _quiet._ ”

Instead of appearing chastened, he throws a grin at her. “Hold on, is that a denial, _comrade_? Because I just want to say, after the way you’ve gone after me for lying—it seems a little hypocritical for you to start now.”

“It’s not a denial, it’s a _please mind your own business,_ ” she informs him with as much dignity as she can muster, nervous jitters filling her stomach all over again when the image of Gleb's face so close to hers rises in her memory. Truly, what _was_ she thinking? “I’m not certain what I’m feeling right now. I just know it’s very unpleasant to talk about it. And since I’ve already got one upcoming ordeal to worry about…”

“Oh, right.”

He slips back into sympathy then, and makes a clear effort to offer nothing but support and suggestions for cover stories as they make their way into the town that’s just beginning to bustle, and Anya lets him ramble on since she appreciates the effort. A potent, conflictive soup of grief, gratitude, and what’s either anger or regret swirls within her, and it’s easier to let the buried grief consume the other more complicated, confusing emotions as they near the cathedral—particularly when they arrive only to discover that there’s no need for their concocted explanations. Someone, as it turns out (a high-ranking _male_ someone with unexplained connections to a local magistrate who apparently wields a great deal of influence), has phoned to inform those in charge that the daughter of one of her ladyship’s favorite former maids wishes to pay her respects, and the gates are all but thrown open for them. She exchanges a glance with Dmitry as they enter the solemn, cavernous edifice, but it isn’t until long afterward, when she’s said her goodbyes and is thoroughly cried out and they’re seated on a bench watching the boats bob over the water, that he finally turns toward her.

“Strange thing, isn’t it?” he says almost thoughtfully. “You’d think that surprisingly helpful bastard would’ve at least offered us a lift to town.”

“He did allow us to walk away with the knapsack,” Anya murmurs, more than a little scratchily after all the tears. “And he knew what was in it.”

Dmitry nods. “That’s true. He did. And one day, you’re really going to have to explain why in the hell a stiff-necked Bolshevik who _definitely_ knows exactly who we both are and what we did let us walk without question. And also why you consider him a friend.”

“Maybe. But not today.”

She fixes her eyes on the twinkling, golden-tipped waves that lap in a soothing, rhythmic cadence against everything, and pretends it's the Neva she’s watching. If she concentrates hard enough she thinks, she can recall the smell of rain-dampened cobblestones in lieu of orange blossoms.

The only trouble is, the cloying sweetness of orange blossoms is incredibly difficult to banish once its aroma has been absorbed. And hard as she tries, the cobblestones keep getting mixed up with the unmistakable scent of official-looking wool coats, and that's just not fair.

Games of make-believe are _supposed_ to be controllable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing the classical music theme, the chapter is titled after the piece of the same by Camille Saint-Saëns. It’s one of my favorite compositions ever, and I kind of used it as theme music for this section because it deals so much with Anya’s past.
> 
> When I first started writing this section, I intended it to be part of Ch.2. But, because I’m still a little iffy on writing stuff that connects to the musical but also somewhat fits into the bounds of historically-accurate, what-if conspiracy theories (I theoretically know the entire musical plays fast and loose with history, but I personally can’t get past that annoying little voice in my head that’s always like That Didn’t Actually Happen, You Have To At Least TRY To Make It Plausible) I got a little too interested in feeling out what Anya really being Anastasia would mean to Gleb and Anya, and their conversation in the woods got super long and ended up in a totally different place than I expected, so I split it up. As a result, there are now two chapters that take place in the same time/setting, but that won’t be the case for most (if not all) the rest of the chapters—the next update will be after another chunk of time has passed and be in a different location :)
> 
> I intensely dislike how this chapter turned out after breaking it up, but it was interesting to write if only because it involved a complicated subject and led to me watching a bunch of travel guides on Denmark to verify my facts (it occurred to me halfway through that I didn’t actually KNOW if the type of landscape I was describing was accurate and then I had to see if I could find anything that would show me what the geography was like in the 1920s, and THEN I got super distracted and decided that one day I’m definitely going to visit Denmark, so yeah). It’s a little like a tightrope act for me trying to figure out how to write about the issues that I think stand as the biggest obstacles for Anya and Gleb, because in my opinion, the thing that’s most difficult to process about the tragedy of the Romanov story is that it’s really a tragedy on all fronts with a lot of evil and no clear-cut villains or heroes—while it’s easy to understand that what happened to the imperial family was WRONG, it’s also easy to understand how much wrong was ALSO done to all the people under their rule during the years leading up to the revolution/the bitterness and hatred that would fester from seeing one group of people living in luxury while the people going to war, dying in battle, working day in and day out etc., are starving. And going off the emphasis the musical places on the significance of loyalty, duty, and love for home, I feel like that’s a big part of why the idea of Anya and Gleb intrigues me. While both of them love Russia and think of it as home and both of them are hardworking and loyal, they ultimately arrive on that bit of common ground from totally opposite paths, and most of the friction between them is caused by the fact that if Anya is NOT just Anya, then she automatically represents everything Gleb stands against and that creates a kind of ideological crisis for him since, in essence, his pre-determined enemy has inconveniently been humanized and he must either defy orders and allow her to go free, or follow orders and kill someone he doesn’t truly believe is deserving of death. And either way, he’s betraying his principles—if he defies orders, he is not a loyal Russian; if he follows orders, he is a loyal Russian, but maybe not such a good one. For Anya, on the other hand, it’s not so much a struggle of moral absolutes being suddenly called into question as it is a struggle to understand how she fits into the world now that she’s learned who she is, and Gleb’s recognition is important to her even though he is very much against her being Anastasia because it verifies that there’s some truth to it and she’s not just believing what she and others want to believe. 
> 
> (Quick postscript b/c I'm running out of comments space: I can't for the life of me figure out Gleb's age in 1916-17, but my best guess is 'old enough to be in the army,' so that's what I'm going with; also, this is probably the last chapter Dmitry will appear in for the simple reason that I plotted this story with two characters in mind and he's not one of them 😬. If his absence seems random, I apologize in advance). 
> 
> Thanks for reading/commenting, and sorry about the length between updates! This was supposed to go up close to Valentine’s Day, but we had a bad winter storm where I live and the plans kind of derailed about the time they began rolling blackouts and the heat/internet would cut out like every couple hours or so. The next update will most likely be toward the end of March/beginning of April, but we shall see. Hope you’re having a good day whenever you’re reading this, and that your 2021 is going much, MUCH better than your 2020!

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: I’ve never written (or even read) fanfiction about a musical before. I love my shows with all my heart, but I’ve always been more or less satisfied with the way everything goes, and I’m never on the hunt for any more content than is contained within the acts. I’m still not precisely sure how I ended up here—I grew up with the Anastasia film and absolutely adored Dimitri, didn’t *hate* his character in the musical (Derek Klena’s VOICE, my HEART), and I 100% expected to ship him with Anya. Only…I didn’t. 
> 
> I could have, I really could have, and I honestly wanted to very badly, but…I didn’t. 
> 
> I have chosen to blame my inexplicable preference for Gleb/Anya on my apparently still raging-since-08-or-whatever crush on Ramin Karimloo and his voice (tbh, the man could sing the periodic table of the elements whilst wearing a penguin costume and I would still swoon) + the fact that Musical Anya & Musical Dimitri strike me as very different from Movie Anya & Movie Dimitri, but I have a bad feeling those aren’t my only reasons. There’s just *something* about Gleb/Anya that piques my interest/fires my imagination in a way Dimitri/Anya can’t, and since I became obsessed with this musical during lockdown and stumbled across a version where Christy Altomare kneels during the handholding portion of the confrontation scene (bless her), there was no getting around it. I had way too many feelings and ideas begging for release and had to write them.
> 
> The plan is for this to be a multi-chapter story that builds on the foundations the show laid, and the intent is to explore the potential for the Gleb/Anya relationship my heart wants without rewriting characters to unrecognizable levels. I personally struggle to read fics that bash a character who’s preventing a ship from happening/kill them off just to get them out of the way; my brain rejects that stuff as instinctively as Dana Scully rejects a Fox Mulder theory, and it always makes me grumpy. (Because, you know…I want to believe, and the blatant character assassination makes it so hard to do that.) I am the WORST at updating regularly & the current unpredictability of the COVID-19 climate only makes that tendency worse, but I hope to churn an update out every month. 
> 
> Before I forget: the chapter title is named after Stravinsky's piece of the same name. I've had a semi-irrational love for the Firebird ballet since I was little, and since this song is one of my favorites and really fit the mood of the chapter, of course I had to clunkily throw it in there.
> 
> If you took the time to read this, thank you so much! If you enjoyed, please let me know (honestly, if you didn’t, you can let me know that, too. I’m not sensitive, I am OBSESSED with this musical, I only have about six people in real life who I can talk to about it, and since they all tire of discussing it far more easily than I, I’m kind of desperate.)  
> My Tumblr is @alwaysspeakshermind (I’m on there sporadically because of work, life, etc., but I’m trying to get better about it and I always check and answer my messages, so if you ever want to say hi…say hi! I have wide and varied book/film/music/TV taste; the odds are we’ll have something in common besides Anastasia :])


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